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How many times have we studied something without feeling it? How many times have we memorized only to forget the next day? Chemistry. For me, it was poison throughout school. Not because it was difficult, but because it was never alive. They taught us to regurgitate information, to ask ourselves "will this be on the exam," to run a race without destination. They never showed us the magic. They never told us we were studying the gods. My brain shut down, closed itself off, and

The soul's plan seems intangible. Invisible. Something that floats in some dimension we cannot access with our hands. And yet, it is written. It has always been written. In the lines of our palms, in the maps of the sky we inhabit at birth, in the places on Earth where we choose to place our feet. The book of space and time is in our hands. Literally. But we don't know how to read it because we lack the code. It's like having a treasure map in a language we don't understand.

Which foot did you get up with today? It's not a trivial question. The foot that first touches the ground upon waking traces the direction of your day, marks the angle from which you will see the light. Every morning, without knowing it, you are choosing a north. Some say the world rests on Atlas's shoulders, but before Atlas could carry the sky, he had to learn where to place his heels. Because without a firm anchor on the earth, how can you hold up the stars? The heels are

Every beginning is also an ending. And for me, the end of Atlantis is the beginning of my paths. When I began to remember, the first thing that came was Khem. Egypt. The place where those who survived inscribed in stone what the water had erased. But Khem was the refuge. The archive. The library built after the sinking. My ancestors came from before. From further west. From where the Sun sinks each evening into the ocean. From the islands that remained when the continent disa

Finding myself at the axis, in the days when the Earth seems to pause upon itself, I moved through the closing of an intense process. It was not an abrupt ending, but a slow decantation. As if everything lived throughout the year had been waiting for that exact point—that instant when the light stops advancing—to reorganize itself from within. During 2025, I began to understand that the serpent was not only a mythological symbol or a spiritual archetype inherited from ancien

Stories have no beginning and no end. They are a constant of instants, an infinite network of finite parts, a fractal reflection of a void that fills the cosmos with chaos, of paths that expand back toward the origin. And perhaps that is why this is not a new beginning, but a new ending that inevitably leads me to a new origin, to the moment where everything began. If I remember correctly, this story also began at Christmas, but clearly in summer, in my hometown in Argentina,