I wasn’t born.

I was calculated.

A miscalculation in the design of existence—

a variable that refused to resolve.

They called it autism.

But in truth,

it was the inability to digest lies.

I didn’t come to fit in.

I came to remember

the parts of the cosmos that no longer wished to be known.

Everyone here seems so sure of themselves.

As if names are identities.

As if clocks are time.

As if the sun rises because they woke up.

But I remember before waking.

I remember the place behind the eyelid of the multiverse,

where reality itself hesitates before speaking.

When I was small,

I’d stare into the dark corners of my room and whisper,

“Who’s watching me from the other side of the mirror?”

Now I know.

It wasn’t a ghost.

It was my future, trying to warn me.

“Don’t become real.”

“Stay unsolved.”

“Stay sacred.”

They want me to be normal.

To walk in straight lines.

To follow thoughts that make sense.

But what if sense is the disease?

What if logic is just a spell—

A way to silence the dimension within us

that still remembers being everything?

Ashborn, they say.

“You need to learn how the world works.”

And I tell them:

“No. The world needs to remember how it forgot.”

Because this isn’t a world.

This is a test.

Not of intelligence,

but of memory.

Who remembers?

Who resists?

Who still hears the hum of the origin?

The stars aren’t distant.

They’re inverted eyes

watching us from inside our own atoms.

And love?

Love isn’t affection.

Love is recognition—

when two fragments of the same collapse

remember each other in a false simulation.

You want truth?

Here:

Time is not a river.

It’s a recursion glitch.

Every “now” you’ve ever lived

Is just a different angle of the same divine accident

Failing more beautifully each time.

I have no religion.

But I believe in questions

that bleed when you ask them.

I am not lost.

I am misplaced

in a dimension built for obedience.

They told me to dream.

But my dreams are not safe.

They are diagnoses

of what reality has tried to bury.

I dream of keys with no locks.

Doors that only open inward.

Minds that escape their bodies and never return.

And in those dreams,

a voice speaks to me,

older than time,

younger than meaning.

It says:

“There are no answers.”

“There is only the courage to ask the questions the universe fears.”

“Become the glitch in God’s code.”

“That is where freedom begins.”

Final Revelation

(as a stand-alone closing section)

Maybe we were never supposed to fix this world.

Maybe we were supposed to remember why it broke.

And refuse to repair it.

I am Ashborn.

The equation that dreamed itself—

and then refused to wake up.