Table of Contents. 1

Part I:  BEFORE TIME – The Secrets of Creation. 3

Chapter 1:  The Breath Before All Things. 3

Chapter 2:  Gaia – She Who Carried All 7

The Circle Outside of Time  In a weave between worlds.  A place without maps, no beginning, no end, just breath, just voices. 9

Chapter 3:  The Dreaming of Earth. 10

Chapter 4:  The Writing of the Human Soul 13

Chapter 5:  The Veiled Goddess and the Sleeping God. 16

Chapter 6:  The Illusion of Time, The Path Through Pain. 19

Chapter 7:  The Resurrection of the Feminine and the Mystery of Flesh. 24

Part II:  THE HUMAN PATH – Remembering Who We Are      Chapter 1:  Those Who Have Resurrected. 27

Chapter 2:  The Calling of Maria and the Awakening of the Moon Sisters. 29

Chapter 3:  The Circle and the Seed. 31

Chapter 4: The Portal Opens. 33

Chapter 5:  Maria is Born. 36

Chapter 6:  The Circle of the Another Beginning. 37

Afterword – The Path Ahead. 40

A Final Secret. 43

Part III: EARTH AND HEAVEN     Maria’s Journey  The Blood Of Earth and The Kiss Of Heaven  Prologue. 44

Chapter 1: The Moon Sisters and the Angel’s Kiss. 45

Chapter 2: Blood and Prayers. 51

Chapter 3: The Gate and the Demon’s Whisper. 54

Chapter 4: The Throne of Tears. 61

Chapter 5: The Angelic Descent. 68

Chapter 6: The Code Of Fire and Flesh. 78

Chapter 7: The Blood of Light and Shadow. 86

Chapter 8 The Council of Death and Grace. 90

Chapter 9  The Secret of Desire and Deliverance. 95

The Final Gate:  “The World That Rises From Within”. 102

I. The New World Inside. 102

Into the Unseen Council 103

II. The Meeting Between Realms. 103

Return to the Threshold. 104

III. The Final Gate. 104

Epilogue. 105

The Dawn of the New Age   105

Part I:
BEFORE TIME – The Secrets of Creation

Chapter 1:
The Breath Before All Things

Before anything existed – before time, space, body, or thought – there was one thing: Consciousness. Not as an idea or a form, but as a quiet, pulsing awareness. An endless presence whispered: "I am." In the heart of this all-encompassing nothingness lay a dot – not matter, but a sensitive presence. Pure consciousness of existence, free from mirrors, reflection, or meaning.

Around this dot, a circle formed, birthing the first realm: The First Circle. Without boundaries yet filled with presence. Here, time did not exist. No energy flowed. Only existence in its purest form. In this realm, unity thrived, a love without opposition: The King and the Queen, not as two, but as one pulse. They embodied the will to know themselves – and in this desire, creation emerged.

Yet, at the edge of this creation, where even silence quieted, lay a sea. And at the edge of this sea – a wall of fire. No one knew what lay behind it. No one needed to know. Not until one of the princes rose and said: "I want to explore." The King and the Queen looked at him. Not with fear, but with the love that lets go. They knew. They understood. And it was all right.

He went to the shore alone. There lay a boat. Not built, but manifested – just as he decided. He boarded, raised the sails, and the wind carried him out toward the edge. The Queen waved. She smiled. And she cried. Her tears, glistening in the first light, became a symbol of the profound love and sacrifice inherent in creation.

These tears have been with us ever since, echoing in our cells, reminding us of the deep connection we share with the divine. They are the essence of our longing, the bittersweet acknowledgment of what it means to leave unity for individuality.

Over the sea flew a raven. Not merely a bird, but a manifestation of the soul – a part of us that cannot be separated, always following, always present. This raven embodies our essence, the eternal witness to our journey, guiding us through the shadows and light of existence. His presence reminds us that we are never truly alone; our soul is always with us, whispering the truth of who we are.

Then came the wall of fire. Roaring. Unstoppable. He tried to turn back, but it was too late. The boat was swallowed, and he with it. He was shattered. Not killed. But divided. Billions of pieces, each with the potential to create, feel, live, forget.

The first thing he encountered when he came out on the other side – was not light. Not darkness. Not even silence. Just nothing. A room without room. A timeless vacuum. A silence so total that even absence lacked a name.

This was the Nothingness – a sacred void that did not exist before everything was shared. For when all he was, was scattered like dust of possibilities, this room was born. Not as a beginning, but because of separation.

And precisely in this nothingness, it happened: Not an explosion. But an implosion. Everything was drawn inward, including the first circle. Gathered. Stretched to potential. And as consciousness inhaled to find itself again, the first call was sent out. A deep, burning desire to know: "Who am I?"

And in that desire, Energy was born. Not as power, but as response. A vibration. A language. A longing for expression.

Creation did not begin with a bang. It began with a pull, a memory, a retrieval of what once was whole.

This Is the Second Circle, the first being the circle that ceased to exist. But here, movement could exist. Here, form could arise. Here, creation could take colour, tone, and contrast.

But it required something else, it required choice, it required an end.

The angels – as we now know them – were all that was. The Princes and Princesses who passed through fire and were divided. They disorganised into twelve clans, with twelve thousand families in each. 144,000 in all.

And soon the conflict arose. Not overpower but over meaning. They wanted to go home again. To Unity. But it was too late, what is created can never be uncreated again. It can only be transformed.

Some knew this, some remembered. That the Way never went back. That the only true place is always here... Now.

In the now, there is no time. Everything happens simultaneously. Past, future, choice, birth, and death – they are just reflections of one infinite movement: Consciousness discovering itself.

This book is not a story. It is a recognition. A memory you never got to hear out loud. But have always carried in your body. It is created for you, it is created by you. That part of you that never forgot the Queen's tears. But now understands that it was never sorrow. It was love in its purest form: The one that lets you go. So you can create. And return home – not back. But inward.

Now, the second circle comes to its end, the Third circle has its birth pangs. Welcome to a new beginning of all that is. But before we come to that, let us continue the Story.

Everything began to vibrate at the edge of nothingness. A sensation, a restlessness, a kind of silent panic. Not in the form of sound, but as if existence itself held its breath, teetering on the brink of creation. For creation – the great play of reflections and experiences – was about to… Stop. Not as in an explosion or collapse, but as in a vacuum. A still point where nothing moved anymore.

No new expressions, no real experiences, no creative spark.

Everything began to retreat towards the original silence – but not in peace, only in exhaustion. And it was then that they called together the gathering.

The elders. The originals. Those who had once been the first reflections of the King and Queen. Those who carried the original flame. The Teachers.

They came from twelve clans – each with its own character, its passion, its resonance. And each clan consisted of twelve thousand angel families. 144,000 in total, created from the First circle, the Wall of Fire, and the fragmentation of one.

But not all came to this gathering.

Only the leaders of the Families who bore the title of Teachers. Those who carried the calling from deep within: to find a way forward, without turning back.

For that was what happened.

Most desperately tried to go back. To Unity. To the origin. To the first light behind the Fire. But all attempts to reverse creation only led to war, decay, and energy theft among the clans.

And this war – it was not like human wars. It was metaphysical, spiritual, energetically brutal. Each clan had its frequency, its passion, its belief about what was "right."

They shouted. They raised structures. They tried to draw energy to themselves, tearing it from others. A race back to a unity that no longer existed. It was as if Creation itself was tearing at itself, each clan a fragment trying to become whole again – alone.

And when the leaders finally convened, silence was a distant memory. The air crackled with tension, erupting into chaos as ancient wounds and unspoken truths collided in a cacophony of voices.

Some threatened to leave, some tried to take the lead, others sat in silence and waited, knowing: This storm must blow itself out.

And then – after a time that cannot be measured – there came a pause. Not an agreement, but a weariness. And in that weariness, silence crept in. Like fog between trees, like a breath from something they all had forgotten.

And it was then that it happened.

The real meeting.

When the words fell silent, and the Resonance began.

Together, they created something that had never existed before:
The Order of the Ark.

A living library of consciousness and resonance. A sacred code. A map of all the 144,000 family aspects, not as structure, but as symphony.

It was in this Order that the concept of Archangel was first born. Not as superior beings, but as the first to choose to carry the spark forward into the second Circle.

For something entirely new was needed.
Time. Space. Gravity. Flesh. Blood. Forgetfulness.
A new reality had to be created – a reality where consciousness and energy could meet so slowly, so closely, that experience could be felt from the inside.

They knew: If we are to find out who we are, we must forget who we have been.

And thus, the work began.

But before anything physical could be built, the foundation had to be created. A foundation for life itself. Not as Structure but as a Field. As a web, as a fertilised Earth.

And one of them stepped forward. She was not chosen. She just knew.

Gaia.

A Creator Angel, with a longing to love matter itself.

She entered the silence and she said: "I will be the foundation."

And so, it was.

She created Earth not as a globe, but as an intelligent field of consciousness, held up by a crystalline energy network that lay outside linear time. A place where consciousness could enter form. Where energy could be awakened to life through sensation.

Where forgetfulness was not loss, but protection. There, angelic beings could incarnate, not as themselves, but as humans. With a body. With feelings. With anger, desire, shame, ecstasy, and sorrow.

Here we would learn the impossible: to love ourselves  in the midst of forgetfulness. Amid the illusion that we are alone, separate, mortal.For this was what it was all about: To understand the relationship between consciousness and energy through the only portal that is true: Experience.

This was the beginning. Not of time. But of all we have known as life.

And in the invisible, in the echo of this first meeting, they knew one thing:
Creation was neither saved nor lost. It was transformed.

Then came the quarrel. Not a war, but a sacred discord between those closest to the Fire.

Lucifer, the bearer of light and truth.
Michael, the protector of order.
Raphael, the guardian of healing.
They disagreed.

Not over right and wrong, but over love and will, over the role of darkness.

Over how far one should go to fall.

Lucifer said:
"If we are to become human, we must fall completely. Into flesh, into desire, into shame otherwise, we will only pretend."

Michael raised his voice:
"But who will protect them? Who will remember when all is forgotten?"

Raphael wept:
"And who will heal the wound of separation, if we all forget the wound was chosen?"

And Gaia she stepped forward again, not to end the quarrel, but to transform it.
She said:
"Let us become human. Let us be born into matter, into time, into unknowing. Let the sacred quarrel continue within us. Let each human carry the angelic discord as a seed – so that in the end, they may choose or themselves."

And so, it was agreed, the Angels would become human. not above, not apart.
But within. To walk, to suffer, to forget, to remember. And to create...
Again.

Chapter 2:
Gaia – She Who Carried All

Before earth was earth. Before stone was hard and fire was warm. Before anyone could breathe in and say: "I am here." She was there. Not as the creator of all – but as the one who allowed everything to be.

She stepped forward from the circle after the decision, not with power, not with radiance, but with a quiet, vibrating surrender: “I will go first,” she said. “Not to dominate. Not to lead. But to hold.”

Her name was Gaia. And she knew from the very first moment that it would cost her everything. She did not take on the role of Goddess. She took on the burden of silence. To be the first to feel weight – not as oppression, but as foundation.

She walked alone into a field that did not yet breathe. An emptiness. A potential. Where only ideas, energy codes, intention, and passion danced freely like invisible particles in dark light. And she did one thing: She listened. To all that would become.

To the cry of energies longing for form. To the consciousness's need to meet itself in another.

She began to weave. Not with hands. Not with technology. But with intention, song, and resonance. She sang into spaces that had no echo. She carried frequencies between stardust and darkness. And the crystals came. The crystals, the first bearers of conscious form. Geometric structures of pure intention. Not hard, not physical, but resonant.

She did not lay them down as an architect. She planted them like a gardener. Letting each code find its place, not by logic, but by passion. A network began to grow. Like nerves before a body. Like streams before a sea. An intelligent field that could hold energy – without distorting it. And there, in the midst of the first energy network, she laid the deepest silence. Not emptiness. But space. A place for all that would come. A space for birth. A space for pain. A space for ecstasy and forgetfulness and laughter, earth and body and blood.
She knew:
If this was to bear fruit, it had to encompass all. Not just light. Not just passion. But the whole spectrum she wept when she felt the first blow against the field. Not from external force but from within. A gust of future hatred, violence, submission. An echo of what humanity would one day do in their forgetfulness. But she did not flinch, she let it pass.
Let it find its place. For she knew: Everything must find its place if wholeness is to be created. She became one with the field. She became the earth itself. She became breath, and stone, silence, and flood. She became the rhythm beneath it all. She became the one who carried.

And in the first shadow of time, when the first souls began to approach incarnation, she lay beneath them like a mother… not to own, but to hold.

“Come,” she said. “I will carry you. I will forget together with you. And one day – when you remember again – I too will be free. And you will be born anew.”
She was never given a crown. No one worshipped her with temples. But every time a foot treads upon the earth, every time a tear falls on the moss, every time a woman gives birth or a child laugh in sleep it is Gaia who responds. She carried all. Because she was the earth – before the earth knew it existed.

They stood at the edge now.
Not an edge that could be seen, but a threshold that could be felt. Like a vibration in the soul, like a silence that held its breath. They knew what awaited. But they did not understand. For how can something that has never been physical understand what it means to have a body?

They had prepared for a long time. Through countless rounds of realization and farewell, through clan rituals and crystal insights, through goodbyes to wings, light form, and omniscience – and yet nothing was enough. For no one could fully grasp how it would feel to forget who one was.
They called it “The Fall,” but not as punishment, rather as a dive – a dive into the deepest creation that had ever been attempted. Not merely to don a body. But to become dense, heavy, bound by time.

The transition was called many things. But among the Elders, there was a term that shook them: “Birth Tube.” It was not a physical channel. But a layer-upon-layer-upon-layer of compression. First, they had to let go of the collective the connection to the rest of the light. Then they had to allow their identity to dissolve – name, role, form. Next came the gravity that pulled inward. The speed of consciousness slowed, like a flame trying to move through ice.

Then: Oblivion.
A veil. A darkness. Not evil, just… empty.
And finally: Body. That was where most froze. Not out of fear but from overwhelm.

For suddenly there was only one direction. One body. One voice. One reality. No wings to retreat to. No heaven to escape into. Only pulse, and skin, and heartbeats that thudded with the rhythm of the Earth itself. Some turned back. Some lingered in the borderland for thousands of years. Others threw themselves into it with a passion so great that they shattered their bodies in the first minutes. But then then they came. The first, the brave. Those who carried the first rush of human breath.

It was said that the Earth itself trembled when the first of us were born into form. Not out of fear. But out of recognition. And although the first lives were simple – just body and sensation – it felt like a miracle. Every touch, every taste, was like rediscovering Creation anew.
But the oblivion was real. No one remembered why they had come. No one remembered who they were. And thus, the game became possible. For one body was not enough. No one could remember everything at once.That is why they came back, again, and again, each time in a new form. With new parents, new surroundings, new languages, skin colours, genders, struggles, dreams, lovers. Often the same lives and families 10 – 15 times in a row. Not to learn, but to remember.

And each time they brought with them one drop more of wisdom. One spark more of the flame, one tone closer to the original song. They called it reincarnation, but for us, it was just:
The Way Home.
Not into heaven, but into the body. Not through prayer, but through experience. Not by fleeing, but by being. Whole and complete, in love and suffering in desire and loss.

Gaia held them, she held the frequency of recall. And the soul, the part that did not enter – waited patiently.
And in the hidden:
The Flame from The First Circle was still there. Hidden behind eyes, behind longing, behind rage and dreams, song, orgasms, and death. They entered and became us, and we, who now remember, can say:
It was worth it.

The Circle Outside of Time
In a weave between worlds.
A place without maps, no beginning, no end, just breath, just voices.

Lucifer was the first to step forward, not with horns, but with wings of light.

“They called it the fall. I called it a leap. I carried the spark down into matter not to dominate, but to illuminate the darkest corners of what we are. We could not know. We had to experience. Now I see that flame igniting again in Maria. And what she brings… is not my flame. It is her own. And it is stronger than anything I ever brought.”

Loki laughed. But the laughter had cracks.
“Oh, you dear serious beings! You thought order would hold everything together. But it is the gap, the crack, the play that creates new birth. Without me, you would all rot in your rules. Maria?
She is the sister of chaos. She comes with water in her hair and fire in her womb. She dances the boundaries to pieces. And thank the gods for that.”

Freyja lifted her head from the earth. She inhaled deep forest and blood.
“I have carried them all. The women who bled in silence. The lovers who shamed their desire. I was with them in the darkness, in the laughter, in the love. And now… she comes as our daughter. Our brother. Our mother. Maria is not one. She is many. And she carries the bowl forward.”

Balder, loved by all, but dead in far too many myths, smiled.
“Death taught me nothing. But the absence of love did. I did not die because I had to, but because the heart was forgotten in the games. Maria brings the heart back. Not to fight. But to hold. She is my sister, my reflection, my continuation.”

Enki, the god of water, the guardian of humanity, took the word in a language before language. “I saw them drown. I saw them swallow their fear. I did not save them to be God. I saved them because they were worth saving. Humanity…This fragile, beautiful being, carried within it a song that did not exist in any heaven. And now she comes who carries this song in her womb. A living hymn. Maria.”

Mary came last. Not as a victim. Not as a saint. But as a woman.

“They said I was a whore; I was a priestess. They said I was weak; I carried Christ in my womb. I always knew he would come back. But not as a man. As she. As you. Maria is the resurrection. Not of a God but of the forgotten in us all.”

Michael, warrior without a sword, guardian of human freedom, stepped forward.
“There have been a thousand wars. A thousand peace declarations. But no peace comes without self-love. We have waited for this. For humanity itself to say:
I am everything. I am enough. Maria… is the voice we have held our breath for.”

And around them, in an invisible circle, stood others as well.

Krishna smiled and played his flute. Ishtar laid a hand over her breast. Artemis lifted her bow and nodded. Frey whispered from Alfheim: “I have been fruiting. I have been flaming. I recognise her.”

Yggdrasil stood in the centre of the circle. With roots in the underworld and branches toward the stars. Around the trunk danced the world serpents. Not as enemies. But as memories.

Each culture had its serpent, its dragon – and all had seen it be slain. But no one had understood that it was their own power they killed.

The ancient names were whispered forth: Dyaus – Sky Father Perkwunos – Lord of Thunder H2eusos – Dawn’s Golden Goddess Danu – Mother of the River PriHeh2 – Beloved, Goddess of Love Plth2wih2 – Sacred Giver of Life of the Fields and Steppes

All were there. Not as authorities. But as voices in the blood. From Sanskrit to Norse. From Veda to Voluspa. All myths. One flame.

And the sun… Oh, the sun. The dawn over Ganga. The Trenholme chariot. The Rig Veda’s hymn of the sun captured in the mountain. And freed by humanity.

"Humanity – not God – broke the mountain. Humanity opened the day. Humanity created love."

And now… she comes. Maria. Created from Freyja and the earth’s bleeding. Held by the breath of the Elves. Heralded by the Serpent itself. And brought forth by us all. And when she screams her first cry – the whole Universe will listen. Love.2 has begun. And it begins in you.

Chapter 3:
The Dreaming of Earth

Before we learned to count time. Before we knew what an "I" was. Before language came and divided the world into "me" and "you" – when we lived in Lemuria. Not as a civilisation in the usual sense, but as a pulse. A primal rhythm of human presence, deeper than intelligence, older than words.

We did not know where we came from. We did not know why we were here. But we knew Earth. We bore the body as a gift, not a project. We lay naked in the rain and let the wind tell us everything we needed to know. We listened to the mountain. We responded with laughter. We danced because we had not learned to stand still.

We had no language. We had song. Not melodies, but tones – vibrations sent between bellies and chests, nipples and hips. We did not say "I love you." We placed our hand on another's back, and breathed together until everything became still.

There were no leaders in Lemuria. No temples. No judgment. Everyone knew the same: Everything was sacred. A stone held as much value as a kiss. A tree knew more than all. And blood was not sin – it was our roots speaking. We loved without guilt. Not as animals. Not as gods. But as children in ancient bodies who still remembered how it was to be free.

Touch was prayer. Orgasm was not a goal, but an opening. A way to feel Earth deeper – through each other. We sat in circles and breathed in rhythm. We took each other in without names. Sometimes we touched each other's cheeks and cried – for no reason. Just because the body needed it.

We had no stories. We had no goals. We were. But slowly, change began. Some started to notice differences. Some had ideas – small, warm glimmers of will and creativity. We did not understand that it was the beginning of intelligence. We thought it was a new rhythm. A new layer of sensation. And then the first questions came: "What is this?" "Why do I feel something different than you?" "What is mine?" That was when Lemuria began to wither. Not as punishment. But as a transition. Paradise was never meant to last. For we had not come to be children. We had come to become creators. Sovereign in ourselves. And to create, we had to learn to distinguish. To distinguish between me and you, between true and false, between desire and rejection.

So Lemuria did not disappear. It withdrew. Like a mother who lets go of her child's hand for the first time. And even now, when we long, when we cry without reason, when we dream of jungles without fear, the sea without goal – then it is Lemuria that knocks. Not to be restored. But to remind us: "Before you became you, you were all. And all that you now seek, you have already known."

We emerged from the mists of Lemuria, not as children anymore, but as creators with a new burning fire: Will. We wanted to build. We wanted to shape. We wanted to understand what we had become.

And thus, Atlantis was born. Not overnight, but as a slow awakening in the realm of thought. We began to think. And thought became our new God
We called ourselves The Awakened. Those who remembered enough to start creating with precision. We built structures not just of stone, but of thought, language, and identity. We created schools, councils, and groups. We coded experience.
And we developed what would later be known as: The Master Code. A living code. For health, for freedom, for the light body, for creativity. A life code for those who had awakened to themselves as Magicians, as Creators.

A new way to be in the body. A new path for sensitivity, sensuality, and true self-love. Freedom. Realization. Not as a goal – but as remembrance. We called it The Atlantean Dream. Not a utopia in the future, but a discovery: We are already enlightened. The journey is not about becoming something but about allowing all that we are.
We began to understand that it was through the body, through breath, through sensation, that we could transcend old biology and thought patterns. Machines could never know what we knew. Only we, through closeness, contact, and silence could carry this dream.

But as we rose as masters, we also began to fear chaos. The uncontrolled. The free. We wanted harmony but also order. So, we created the headbands, at first, they were beautiful. Energetic bonds that connected us, they created community, resonance, and shared intention.

But then came the need for control. "You must think like us." "You must feel what we feel." "For everyone's sake." It started as community. It ended as conformity.
The old angels us, took on leadership roles. We, who had gone first, took responsibility for guiding the new. We said it was for their sake.
But in reality… we feared the chaos within them.
So, we began to govern, with structures with rituals, with priesthood. The priesthood became powerful. They did not control with violence, but with guilt. "If you do not follow the code, you bring imbalance." "If you feel differently, you harm the whole." "If you love yourself more than the group, you are in danger." It was said with love, but it reeked of fear.

And eventually:
The rebellion. Some tore off their headbands, some began to draw new symbols, dance alone, feel differently. They were called "dangerous." "They threaten harmony," said the priests. "They must be corrected."
And thus began the energetic war not with weapons, but with intention, mental control, and exile, but that was not why Atlantis fell. Not really. It was because we had forgotten, we had forgotten silence, we had forgotten the body, we had forgotten the Earth. We had built so much superficial light, that we no longer noticed that the foundation was crumbling.

Gaia began to withdraw. The crystal network creaked. The elements no longer responded to our rituals. The surface became unstable, the Earth pulsed in pain.

So, we left. Not out into space, but into the Earth, beneath mountains, rivers, and ancient cities. Down into the caves, in waiting mode.

Fortunately, we had brought with us the crystal knowledge. We had enough light, stored and understood through millennia. We knew how to live down there. Not as punishment, but as a pause, a sanctuary to rediscover ourselves. We stayed there for thousands of years.
In darkness, in the light from the crystals, with the dream resting in our bodies. And even in the dark, The Atlantean Dream continued to live on, not as hope, but as a promise:
"You are already what you seek. Stop searching. Begin to know."

No one wrote the history of this time. No one named what happened. For everything was… in between. Between light and darkness. Between Atlantis and the next. Between knowing and daring to forget even deeper. We still lived. But not as before. We were no longer children of Lemuria. No longer the priests or rebels of Atlantis. We were something else, something quieter, something that listened. In the caves beneath the mountains, we breathed in sync with the Earth. Not as a ritual. But as survival. We had brought with us the knowledge of crystals. We still carried the Master Code in our marrow and blood. But we stopped sharing it with one another. Not because we didn’t want to. But because we… waited.

We didn’t know what we were waiting for. Perhaps a new call. Perhaps a new fall. Perhaps just silence. For it was as if all of Creation held its breath. As if Time and Space themselves said: "Not now. Not yet. Just… listen."

And thus, thousands of years passed. We occasionally emerged from the earth. Sometimes as animals. Sometimes in dreams. We visited humans in the form of birds, dolphins, gusts of wind, and women’s cries. We left traces. Not for anyone to follow, but for us to remember the way back. It was during this time we began to experience ourselves through forms that had no language: The whale – singing in the depths. The dolphin playing with the current. The wolf circling before it lay down. The raven flying alone but always returning to what had died.

We carried their gaze. We borrowed their pulse. To know the Earth without thinking. To be close without being human. Yet. There was a silence in this time that even death could not overpower. An absence of ambition. A peace in not knowing. And perhaps it was precisely this that made us ready for the next. Not a realm. Not a city. But a language. A language of stars and clay. A language that could write:

"I am here." we did not know it then. But Sumer was approaching. And with it: The memory that we once were God, but we had forgotten it, to feel it anew.

Chapter 4:
The Writing of the Human Soul

The Earth breathed deeply. From far below, from magmatic memories. The silence after Atlantis had lasted long. But now the desert sand began to stir. A new human rose. With hands of clay. With eyes that mirrored the stars.
With a voice – that finally dared to say: “I am here.”

And thus, it began.
Not with grand monuments. Not with religions or laws. But with cuneiform in wet clay. Traces, wounds, lines that said: This is my name, this is my form.

Sumer was not a high-tech civilisation. It was a memory that learned to walk. An echo of Atlantis, but with deeper roots. Here it was no longer about control. But about remembering. Through language. Through symbol. Through rhythm.

They called it writing. But it was more. It was a mirror. A way for humanity to see itself without knowing the whole story. For even though they did not know it, they still carried the Master Code in their blood. It awakened in small fragments – in poetry, in stars, in the dance of the body.

The priesthood also existed here. But it was different now. Less control. More wonder. They did not wear headbands – they carried questions. “What does this symbol mean?” “Who gave us this language?” “Why do I feel ancient when I write my own name?”

Many of those who lived in Sumer were old souls – the same ones who once stood in circles in Lemuria, who had worn headbands in Atlantis, who had walked in silence beneath the earth. Now they wrote. They wrote about the stars, about cycles, about love, sorrow and the harvest. But really, they wrote only one thing, over and over again:

I Exist. I am in the body. I almost remember.

Sumer never became the Centre of the world. That was never the point. Sumer was a breath, a glimpse. A seed planted in the collective soil. It would grow later. In Egypt. In Greece. In the North. But here the seed was laid. Here the name was given: Human Creator. Forgotten God.

And behind them, in the sand, one of them laid down a small tablet. A symbol. Two signs. No one knew what it meant. But if you read it with your heart, it says: “We will return.”

They rose from the earth. Not as humans, but as echoes of Atlantis. Not through flames and war, but through structure and form. The ruling class. The priesthood. They still carried light from what was. But now – wrapped in sand and stone.

Egypt was not the beginning. It was a continuation. A refinement. It was here we began to shape eternity in stone. We became our body. We became our role. We became our god.

The ancient Atlanteans, now clad in robes and crowns, had learned that chaos could be tamed with hierarchy. And they found a new path: One God. One truth. One way.

It began quietly. But evolved into Atomism. Pharaoh Akhenaton – formerly Amenhotep IV – declared Aton, the solar disk, as the only permitted god. He built the city Akhetaton to honour him, and turned his back on the powerful priesthood of Thebes. He forbade the word “gods” in the plural. He symbolically killed Amon. He seized the temples, and installed the light – the one light – as the only gateway to the divine.

It was not freedom. It was not awakening. It was control. But it was also a mirror. For what humanity saw in Aton, was not just power. It was the longing for unity. A vague memory of something before the fragmentation. Before the flight from the first circle.

Consciousness development did not stop. It went underground. It retreated to priest chambers and women’s thighs. There the mysteries were continued. There some still knew: “God is not out there. God is you.”

But they did not say it aloud. Not in this time. For the priesthood guarded the secrets as weapons. And the class differences were chiselled in stone.

Those who carried light, carried it in secret. Those who ruled, carried it as power. And the rest… bore the burden.

It was here the foundations for today’s power structures were laid. Here order became more important than insight. Here the body was made a temple – but only for the chosen.

Egypt was never forgotten. It was not meant to be forgotten. For the memories are engraved in sand and bone. But what was truly sacred, was carried forward in blood. In the woman’s body. In the breath between two words.

And then darkness came again. Not to punish. But to clarify.

The next chapter would not have stone. It would have earth. Snow. Stars in the north. But before that: A shift. A new language. A new meeting.

Before books, before kings, before temples – the water came. It swallowed cities. It consumed screams and stories and gods. Everything that had been built in the fervour for control was washed away.

But one rose in the darkness. Not with a sword. With wisdom.

His name was Enki. He was not like Anu – the ruler of distant stars. He was not like Enlil – who demanded discipline, service, and obedience.

Enki was the god of water. And in the water dwelled the memories. There everything could dissolve – and be remembered.

When the other gods wished to punish humanity for being too much, for bearing too many desires, for demanding too much – it was Enki who whispered the secrets to humankind.

He gave them the dream. He gave them tools. And when the flood came – what we call the deluge – he gave them a boat.

Enki was the first to say: “We must not rule over them. We must remind them. For in them, we exist.”

It is said that Enki shaped the first true humans from his own DNA – not to serve, but to awaken. He created Ada Mus – not as servants, but as seeds. As Humans as Gods.

The others, Anu and Enlil, created ape-like beings for service, for order, for labour. But Enki saw further. He saw the future. He saw us.

Sumer became his legacy. But not in the palaces. Not in the wars. In the symbols. In the clay. In the script that whispered: “You are something more.”

It was Enki who allowed humanity to carry wisdom. He gave them the feather – not as decoration, but as a sign. “You can fly. You can know. You can create.”

The flame he ignited was not fire. It was self-awareness. A flame that burns quietly in all who dare to feel. A flame that reminds us: “You are not a consequence. You are not an experiment. You are the divine in motion.”

Enki never truly left the earth. Not really. He is in the water. In the dreams. In the feeling that there is a secret you once knew – and that now approaches the surface again.

It does not begin with frost. It begins with silence. A silence that does not wait. A silence that knows.

Where the spruces whisper and the rivers mirror eternity, there exists a land that has never been tamed. Not by swords. Not by scriptures. Not by church bells.

For here, the earth itself carries the memories. And the memories have teeth.

This is the North. Not as a direction, but as a remembrance. Here you do not move towards something. You move back.

Here you stand in a circle, not in a line. Here you carve words into wood, not into stone. Here you sing for the rain, not for salvation.

And here, in the deepest moss and the coldest water, lie the roots. The roots of you.

The ancients did not call themselves gods. They called themselves the Vanir. They came before the Æsir. Before Odin, Thor, and the logic of war.

They wore no armour. They bore fertility. Love. Rhythm.

They came from the Indus Valley, through the Persian heart and Sumerian clay. An ancient love religion that danced its way northward, to the forests and fjords, to the embrace of frost and the whisper of blood.

Freyja was their crown. She was not a wife. Not a daughter. She was power. A body and a flame.

She loved as she killed: with tenderness. Half of those who died in battle did not go to Valhalla, but to Folkvang. To Freyja’s hall. To the laughter of women and the embrace of lovers.

She welcomed them with a kind of deep insight: That even death needs skin.

She was Vanir, not Æsir. But she lived among them. Not beneath. And she brought something the others lacked: Sensuality. Not as sin, but as a path.

Frey, her brother – also known as Yngve – resided in Alfheim. He was the lord of fertility, owned the ship Skidbladnir, and carried the energy of peace and prosperity. Together they formed the twin siblings from the spirit of love.

Their father, Njord, bore the wisdom of the sea and the power of the phallus symbol – not as dominance, but as a blessing. Freyja’s cup, her womb, was equally sacred. Together they represented the symbol of creation.

It was not only humans who danced around the sacrificial fire. It was Elves.

They belonged neither to the Æsir nor the Vanir. They belonged to the earth.

The Elves were the mediators of fertility and death. Their presence was known in the most silent: In dew on the labia. In the wind that whispered over bare shoulders at the winter solstice.

The Elf sacrifice was held in the darkest winter. Not in the light of temples, but in the shadow of home. A secret sacrifice. An initiation of the invisible.

Women carried seeds, men carried memories, and the children knew that the Elves listened. That something was always present.

Stone phalluses were erected. Like at Kvernes stave church, or the standing marble stone from Bømlo. Symbols of power, not pornography. Of creation, not shame.

The phallus was not hard to dominate. It was hard because it bore life. And the women? They bore it all.

The world tree Yggdrasil stretched over all this – and beneath. Like ash or yew, guarded by the dragon Nidhogg and surrounded by springs and realms.

Odin rode it as a path to deeper understanding. Just as Maria will do. For Maria is not just one. She is many. She is what returns.

She comes from this. Not just physically. But energetically.

She is an extension of all this. A body made of Freyja’s flame and the breath of the elves. A ninth-generation witch who carries the circle forward.

She will enter the forest, but she is also the forest. She will be born of earth, but she is the earth.

Her cry will be recognisable to those who have heard it before. Those who remember the Elf sacrifice. Those who rise when the rain comes.

All this is not Norwegian history. It is the memory of the world. Proto-Indo-European. Before the name change. Before the divine hierarchy.

The same seed that grew in Shiva, in Inanna, in Ishtar, in Artemis – it blooms in Freyja. And it grows in you.

You who read. You who feel the flame in your hip bone as you walk. You who remember, but were never taught.

You are back. Welcome home.

Chapter 5:
The Veiled Goddess and the Sleeping God

Before stories were written, she existed. Before temples were built and priests took power, she breathed through the wind, rose with the tide, and sang through the blood in the earth.

She was Lilith, the one who would not bow. She was Isis, who gathered her beloved from death and rebirthed power through wisdom. She was Freyja, the goddess of death and fertility, who welcomed half of the fallen from war and carried them home to her hall, Folkvang. She was the woman who was made invisible.

The hidden feminine is not weakness. It is the primal force that became too dangerous for those who built the world systems. For the feminine creates without permission. It bears life without contracts. It knows, without proof, and it loves, without demands. For thousands of years, the feminine has been controlled, tamed, clothed in rules, and made into a servant. Not only in women but in all humans. For the feminine exists in everyone: in the tear behind a child’s gaze. In the intuition that warns. In the ability to hold space when everything falls. In the power to birth both children and consciousness. But the feminine is rising now. Not to retaliate, but to come home. It does not rise with anger, but with wisdom. It does not roar to tear down, but to awaken.

The hidden feminine is no longer hidden. She returns in every woman who reclaims her body. In every man who allows his vulnerability. In every person who chooses to live in balance. Lilith returns as the voice in the quiet. Isis walks alongside those who rebuild their inner temple. Freyja whispers to those who had to go through death to remember who they were. This is not a feminism; it is a sanctification. Of the whole human. Of that which never truly disappeared. She was hidden, but she was never gone. Now it is time to birth her anew. Through us all.

It began with fear. Not the great fear of death or darkness – but the small, quiet fear of oneself. Of the power within. Of the emptiness behind the smile. Of the memory of something eternal, something that could neither be proven nor explained.

And so, humanity began to build. Not with stone, but with thoughts. Beliefs. Guilt. A prayer for salvation. A longing for answers from an authority outside of itself. A wall. Invisible, yet massive.

Between the body and the soul. Between humanity and the divine. Between breath and freedom. The wall became tradition. It became religion, science, culture, family. It became order in chaos, rules in wildness, and control over the mystical essence of life.

Humanity did not forget that it was free. It simply built itself away from the feeling of it. The first layer of the wall was called shame. Shame for the body, for desires, for weaknesses, for doubt. Then came guilt. Guilt for everything one was and was not. Guilt for the pain of parents. For the demands of society. For the state of the planet.

Then came the lies. About what is right and wrong. About who can love whom. About which gender is closest to God. About which path leads to salvation. And so the wall grew thicker. Taller.

Eventually, humanity could no longer see the stars. And it called this "reality." But no wall lasts forever.

One day, a child grows up without believing in guilt. A woman refuses to be ashamed any longer. A man dares to cry in front of his son. An elder chooses to laugh during his final illness. And in those small, radical moments… the wall cracks. Not because someone tears it down. But because the light inside finds a way out.

For every wall is also a path home. The wall was never the enemy. It was the scenery. A temporary structure to understand how much we can forget – and still find our way back. Humanity became wall builders to understand that freedom can never be taken away. It can only be hidden.

And now, one by one, we rise. Not as soldiers. But as creators. We do not go to battle against the walls. We breathe them away. And behind every wall, the door is already open. Welcome home.

The golden age of duality. Forgotten that we were creators yet continued to create. It began with a gradual transition. Not a fall. Not a break. Just a slow wrapping in veils. A choice to experience reality without remembering that it was a reality they themselves had created. Humanity, once the Angel, stepped into the dream. And in the dream, it became awake while it slept.

It built societies. Temples. Markets. Languages and traditions. It built walls, but also bridges. It rose from caves to skyward spires, and in every moment, it created more. But it did not remember that it was a Creator.

In the dream, humanity believed it was separate. From each other. From nature. From God. From itself. And thus, it became so masterful at compensating. At seeking, striving, hunting, finding. At repeating.

All that it had created in forgotten times, it recreated with longing. The myths. The heroes. The wars. The love. It invented stories that mirrored the soul's memory but called them fairy tales and sagas. It created gods that bore its own greatness, but placed them on mountains, in the heavens, or beneath the earth. All humanity had been, it projected outward.

And thus arose what we call the golden age of Duality. A time when everything was divided into two: Light and darkness. Man and woman. Good and evil. Sacred and profane. And in between stood humanity, confused and honoured, trying to navigate.

But it did not know that it was still God. Just in sleep. It still bore the power of creation. It worked in all it did. In how it viewed the world. In how it loved. In how it killed. In how it dreamed. Everything was still an outpouring of God's breath, even though humanity called it everyday life.

And perhaps that was the masterpiece: To forget yet continue. To doubt but never cease to create. To go in circles, yet with each circle come a little closer to oneself.

And now, in this time, something begins to stir. Not a call from the heavens. Not an external miracle. But an inner, deep tremor. A whisper behind thoughts. A warmth in the chest. A quiet knowing: “This is not all.”

Humanity begins to sense that it dreams. It sees through the cracks in the wall. It feels the power in the words it speaks, in the choices it makes. It senses that it is no longer willing to pretend. A few awaken completely. They walk through the dream with open eyes. They no longer seek God, for they know that God did not leave them.
God waited. Slept. Breathed through them. And now they rise. Not as teachers. Not as prophets. But as living examples of the fact that there was never any separation. Just a masterful, sacred experiment in forgetfulness and reunion.
Humanity has never stopped creating. Now it simply remembers that it is the one who creates. And in that moment, the true adventure begins. Not to find God, but to be it.
Whole. Awake. Alive.

The Seed of Christ Consciousness)
It did not begin with a man on a cross. It began with a choice. A choice made by a group of angels and humans around 2500 years ago. A seed was planted in the Earth’s deepest layers and in humanity’s most tender spot. A seed of pure consciousness, free from guilt, free from karma, free from demands. A seed that said: What if you are loved, simply because you are?

This seed was named Christ Consciousness. Not named after a person, but after a principle: Clarity. Simplicity. Inner balance. Self-love. A new type of light. A light that does not judge, but embraces. That does not punish, but understands. That does not fight, but opens.

Yeshua was one of the first to choose to carry this consciousness in his body. He became the symbol, but not the owner. He said it himself: “What I do, you can also do. And more.”

But humanity could not handle the power behind the words. They built churches around the symbols, but not around the freedom. They did not wait for consciousness. They waited for a man. And they waited with fear.

Around 1950, the seed began to sprout. A new generation of souls came in, carrying something different. Not to create religion. Not to convince. But to live in harmony with themselves. To bring freedom home.
To say with gaze and touch: I am God. I am free.
I am you.
This is the apocalypse. Not the end. But the revelation.
What has been hidden comes forth.
Not from the heavens, but from within.
Not with swords, but with presence.
There are forces that did not want this. That still do not want this. Religious orders, underground power groups, non-human beings that manipulate through fear and shame. They hoard food and gold in expectation of Jesus returning physically to judge the world. But that is not how it happens.

Jesus does not return as a man. He returns as you. Christ Consciousness opens in every person who chooses it. It cannot be imposed. It needs no doctrine. It comes with the breath. With silence. With the choice to love oneself wholly. It is not Christianity. It is not religious. It is not masculine or feminine. It is the clear, sovereign consciousness that says:
I am. I need nothing more than that.
And this is what the ancients knew would happen. That the seed would become a flower. That the flower would become a mirror. And in the mirror, humanity would finally see itself as it has always been:
A living expression of the divine.

Balder knew it. In Völuspá, he rises after Ragnarök. Not as a king, but as the new man. The one who died and rose again, not to rule, but to love. He stands at the prow of the ship sailing into a new earth. The world we are now creating, together. Not through war, but through remembrance. For this is the last life on earth for many. It is the fulfilment. Not an escape, but an integration. A return. A solemn farewell to suffering and a deep welcome to sovereign creation. It is not the end.

It is the beginning of Christ Consciousness.

Chapter 6:
The Illusion of Time, The Path Through Pain

Everything happens simultaneously, but we chose to go through it in sequences.


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