Samhain Is My Season: A Spiritual Life Remembered

El Amethyst
Nov 1
19 min read

Updated: Nov 2

Samhain isn’t a night you visit. It’s a doorway you recognise. For some, it never shuts.

The Veil Has Never Been Closed For Me

I was Raised by the Gentle Voices Between Worlds

Samhain is about remembering

what was always there.

Two weeks ago, without naming it, I had already begun what Jungian Philosophy call shadow work in this area… but I didn't need a label to know what was happening.

I didn’t plan this. I didn’t sit down with a workbook or a ritual script.

It wasn’t strategy. It was emergence.

It was instinct and intuition.

It was sociology meeting soul.

It was psychology meeting memory.

It was philosophy meeting the body.

It was the kind of transformation that grows from the inside, not the outside… feral, ancient,

utterly permissioned.

No institution, no doctrine, and no polite spiritual template could ever contain the way this

unfolded.

Not in the past two weeks, not in the past two decades, not in the roots of my childhood.

I wrote something then… not as performance, but as remembering.

As reclaiming.

So I bring it here, intact, as it was born:

“Subjective is Sacred

A Truth That Burns in lived experiences!

Not everyone walks the world with logic stitched tight.

And that does not make them any less intellectual!

Some of us weave meaning from, sea, cliffs, stars, the cosmos, from energy, vibrations, intuition,

memory, and metaphysical sparks.

We don’t follow signs

we converse with them.

We don’t fear the unseen

we feel it, fluently.

Call it impractical. Call it weird.

But don’t mistake softness for absence of structure.

Don’t mistake sacred symbols for silliness.

Don’t mistake depth for drama.

My inner world is mapped in metaphors,

not margins.

It took me decades to reclaim

my own language

my own logic

my own lore.

This isn’t a phase.

This is a philosophical lens,

With sociological awareness

a soul-based epistemology.

A cosmic ethic of care.

And it’s not for your approval.

I’m not here to tone down.

I’m here to tune in.

So either lean in with curiosity,

or kindly step aside.

This soul’s not up for translation.

She speaks fluent El!

A soul-weaving, neurodivergent visionary…

(So I’m told, who am I to argue with the universe)

I am not everyone’s cup of tea.

I’m more like a cosmic elixir brewed in the molten core of grief, queerness, and glitter.

And no, I’m not going to water that down.

I believe in memory held in stones.

In conversations that spark across timelines.

In sacred sexuality that doesn’t ask permission to exist.

In a universal energy force of connectedness.

I believe in love, always in love, but not that heteronormative balderdash and the omnishambles

of capitalisms version of love!

I transmute trauma through poetry.

I channel love through lens, word, and frequency

I commune with the universe and carry generations of love I’ve damn well worked hard to find in

this fkery of an existence,

and if that feels a bit (okay allot) strange, well, strange is where the magic lives!!!

You may not understand the way I see the world…

through textures, through threads, through a swirling nebula of my mind, through flame, through

water, through multiple layers, connections, patterns and through instinct…

but I do understand.

And I refuse ever again to make myself smaller to fit someone else’s frame.

Resonance

Ancestral

Multiversal

Spiritual

Cognizance

Occhiolism

Exulansis

— with El Amethyst.”

Soul Memory

People talk about “awakening” like it’s something you stumble into in adulthood, some wild

spiritual plot twist after yoga classes and crystals.

That isn’t my story.

I didn’t awaken.

I remembered.

Before I ever heard the word “spirituality,” I was already living inside it. Childhood wasn’t

innocent, or whimsical, or soft. It was liminal. It was a threshold. I saw things, felt things, moved through dreams like they were doorways, not illusions.

I used to float in my sleep. Not pretend-flying. Not fairy-glitter imagination. I mean: my body

knew weightlessness long before adulthood tried to teach me “reality.”

And then there were the other dreams, the ones nobody writes about in children’s books.

Crushed between teeth. Threaded through a needle in the dark. Not fear for fear’s sake, but

something older. A strange, ancient initiation. I didn’t have language for it, but it marked me. A reminder that transformation sometimes looks like obliteration before it looks like rebirth.

Not your traditional re-occurring dreams of a 7+ year old!

Night was my sanctuary.

The moon did more mothering than any human did.

Silence was safety.

Instinct wasn’t a feeling, it was a survival tool and a compass.

Adults kept insisting the world was flat and sensible and explainable.

I kept quietly knowing better.

They tried to tame me out of intuition, out of sensitivity, out of seeing too much. They called it imagination or over-emotion. I called it truth. I still do.

The veil didn’t “thin” for me at Samhain, it never closed in the first place.

Spirituality didn’t arrive with adulthood, or trauma recovery, or philosophy modules. It didn’t

start when I learned words like “pagan” or “Force” or “soul.”

It started when I was a kid staring out a window, talking to the universe like it was the only being who never lied to me. Nodding at the moon like she understood.

So when I talk about remembering, I mean exactly that.

Remembering what my body already knew.

Remembering what my dreams already mapped.

Remembering what the world tried to crush out of me and failed.

This is soul memory.

And I’m not performing it.

I’m returning to it.

Adolescent Flame

There’s this myth that teenagers are dramatic because they don’t know enough yet.

Honestly? I think teenagers are dramatic because they haven’t been trained out of seeing truth.

At fifteen, someone casually asked me,

“What’s a hippie?”

and I swear a portal opened.

That poem wasn’t cute, or silly, or a school exercise.

It was ignition.

A match-strike in a girl already full of gasoline and soul-static.

I didn’t have the language for queerness yet,

but I felt it burning under my ribs like a secret sun.

I didn’t know to call it rebellion,

I just knew the world’s rules didn’t fit,

and I wasn’t going to pretend they did.

I wrote about hippies and love and peace

because I was already living inside resistance.

Not in the loud, stage-storming way.

In the quiet, survival way.

In the love is not a cage and I refuse to be domesticated way.

That poem cracked open a dam.

And everything came rushing out after.

Night skies.

Moonlight.

Sapphic ache.

Middle-of-the-night safety that nobody could steal.

A universe that made more sense than my living room ever did.

I didn’t pick writing.

Writing picked me.

It was the only place the truth could breathe.

I thought I was writing metaphors.

Turns out I was writing scripture for my future self.

That was the first time I realised...

love can be rebellion.

Story can be armour.

Art can be exit.

And then… Sunshine.

He didn’t “save me.”

God, I hate that narrative.

He saw me.

Do you know what it does to a soul that’s been ignored, silenced, minimized, pathologized…

to finally be seen without flinching?

It doesn’t rescue you.

It resurrects you.

He spoke to me like my mind wasn’t a problem to solve.

He treated my fire like a language, not a liability.

That wasn’t romance.

That was spellcraft.

It didn’t erase the trauma.

It lit a path out of it.

So yeah, call it teenage emotion if you want.

I call it the first time my soul refused to be small.

The first spark of cosmic knowing.

The first taste of truth that didn’t shrink to survive.

The vocal rebellion against wester cultures omniscient, omnibenevolent, omnipotence and omnipresence singular "God"

Writing back then wasn’t hobby or hobby-journal melancholy.

It was weaponry and wonder.

It was oxygen.

I wrote to stay alive.

I wrote to stay real.

I wrote because if I didn’t pour those truths onto paper,

they would’ve burned me from the inside out.

It wasn’t “phase.”

It was becoming.

And I’m still becoming.

The Shadow Years

There were years where I didn’t glow...

I dimmed myself on purpose.

Not because the light was gone,

but because shining made me a target.

People love to preach about healing like it’s tidy

like it comes with incense and clarity

and an Oracle deck and a fucking Spotify playlist named “Rise & Bloom.”

Sometimes healing is just not dying.

Sometimes it’s folding yourself small enough

to slip between the teeth of patriarchy

without being chewed to pieces.

Those years…

I lived in survival mode so long it felt like a postcode, actually it was a postcode, I escaped!

I wasn’t “spiritually asleep.”

I was spiritually underground —

the roots growing in the dark, not dead

just hidden, waiting.

Because I knew if I spoke the truth too soon,

I’d be punished for it.

I was already “too emotional,”

“too intense,”

“too weird,”

“too much.”

Imagine adding

I feel energy,

I trust intuition,

I believe nature speaks,

there is more than one way to know God,

the soul remembers before language,

and no religion owns the truth

on top of that?

I had already told door-knocking Christians,

calm and curious,

that I believed every religion holds something true

and none of us hold the whole picture.

That faith isn’t monopoly or competition,

it’s a mosaic.

I believed that before I had philosophy words.

Before I could defend it.

Before I felt safe to say it loudly.

In a home where disagreement meant accusation,

and “healing” was code for

conform or be labelled insane,

silence becomes armour.

And there’s nuance here...

my spiritual pull wasn’t theatre,

it wasn’t trend,

it wasn’t borrowed aesthetic.

It was bone-truth.

I’d always believed in Earth-spirit,

in soul-memory,

in the hum of nature as more than scenery,

but also in a cosmic layer...

in gods as archetype,

in energy as language,

in the Force before I knew the word,

in the idea that divinity never belonged to one book,

one prophet,

one story.

I wasn’t trying to “find a religion.”

I was already living one...

my own.

But in those shadow years

I zipped my soul shut to survive.

Even when truth tried to crack through.

My witch came first.

Not a trope, not a witch-Tok, not a vibe...

a real woman who walked into my life in 2005

with crystals, ritual, earth-worship,

and no fucking fear in her voice when she spoke of magic.

That friendship was a doorway.

We bought crystals together in 2006

to protect against my biological father’s release from prison.

That wasn’t cosplay.

That was protection.

Urgent. Real. Needed.

I believed her.

I trusted her.

Her witchcraft felt like home

before I even understood why.

But side-by-side with that was the other voice...

the one that used “spirituality” like a weapon,

that warped intuition into paranoia,

that wielded mental health stigma like a spell of its own.

My mother’s “spirituality” always came with threat,

with edge,

with that heebie-jeebie dread that says

whatever you say next will be used to discredit you.

She talked about cleansings and spirits

in the same breath she threatened to have me sectioned

if I didn’t fit her narrative of “healing.”

So yeah...

I learned silence.

I learned caution.

I learned that soul-truth in the wrong company

turns to ammo against you.

I wasn’t hiding because I doubted my own knowing.

I hid because I knew the cost of being right

in a room where someone needs you to be wrong.

So I tucked my wildness in me.

Held my intuition like contraband.

And I watched, and listened, and stayed alive.

And underpinning all of it?

A constant fear of doing it “wrong,”

of appropriation,

of sounding like the mother I refused to become,

of being accused of copying,

of daring to name truths I’d carried alone for so long

that I thought they might disappear if I spoke them.

So I kept my cosmos quiet.

Not because it wasn’t real...

because it was sacred

and fragile

and mine.

But even then

the thread never broke.

There was always a quiet pulse.

A stone in my pocket.

A whisper in my chest.

A knowing that didn’t need permission.

I wasn’t lost.

I was protecting the spark

until I could trust the world not to blow it out.

And fine... some people call that hiding.

I call it strategic survival.

A soul in stealth mode.

What they never teach you about spiritual awakening is this...

Sometimes your magic isn’t sleeping

it’s waiting.

For safety.

For air.

For witnesses who don’t flinch.

For the moment you realise keeping yourself small

was never humility

it was defence.

All while, raising children, marriage, being a carer to my husband through his trauma's. Through the traumatic death of my step-son. Through the weight of appearing heteronormative. And slowly learning my complex queer nuances.

Through escaping generational toxicity, blow after blow, police, courts, trauma!

Not cliché

the beautiful thing?

Even in the dark,

I never lost the cosmic thread.

I just learned to hold it quietly

until I could finally burn again.

The Winter I Sat With Death and Did Not Disappear

Grief didn’t bring me to spirit, grief revealed who had been holding me all along.

Losing my mother in estrangement-silence was the first cut.

A wound without ritual.

A death without closure.

A grief the world didn’t recognise because she had already left me long before her body did.

And then came Nanna.

My real mother-figure.

My anchor to belonging.

The woman whose hands were memory and sanity and softness all in one.

She died on her own terms…

stubborn, dignified, and fiercely loving to the very end.

I didn’t shatter when she left.

I hollowed.

And just when the grief should have settled, life twisted again.

Reyvinn.

A heartbeat that never made it to breath.

A soul that arrived as blessing and left as rupture.

The kind of loss that steals the air from your lungs and the language from your tongue.

That winter, death came in threes.

Most people only lose their mother once.

I lost mine twice… first in life, then in death.

I lost my grandmother.

I lost a child I never got to hold.

If there was ever a moment the void could have taken me, it was then. It should have been then!

And instead?

I built an altar out of instinct. Intuition, whispers from the universe… Fight, don’t give up.

Crystals chosen by feel, not fashion.

Candles lit not for aesthetics, but for survival.

Photos, stones, breath, whispered intentions & conversing.

I spoke to the universe because silence would have drowned me.

I spoke to Nanna because she still felt close.

I whispered to Reyvinn, not to keep them here, but to let them know I saw them, loved them,

honoured their brief presence.

I didn’t find spirituality in grief.

I remembered it.

I remembered the presence that had been with me since childhood dreams.

The quiet hum at the edge of consciousness.

The one who never asked for worship, only for truth.

When the world fell apart, that presence didn’t promise safety.

It promised remembering.

Remember you are here.

Remember you are real.

Remember love does not leave just because flesh does.

Remember the thread.

And I did.

That winter cracked me open, and instead of going numb,

I lit candles and I listened.

I didn’t get small.

I didn’t disappear.

I didn’t bow to loss.

I stayed.

And somewhere between death and dawn, I realised something extraordinary...

I wasn’t grieving in the dark.

I was grieving in the presence of love

older than grief

older than fear

older than flesh and bone.

Loss didn’t break my faith.

It uncovered it.

And I rose from that winter not healed

but alive.

Alive on purpose.

Alive with memory.

Alive with magic humming in my sternum like a warning and a promise.

I did not survive grief.

Grief let me remember myself.

The Return

Samhain 2025 didn’t “open” anything for me.

It wasn’t a switch-flick, a sudden awakening, a mystical Hollywood mish-mash.

It was a homecoming.

A remembering.

A refusal to hide anymore.

I didn’t go seeking magic… I walked into it already humming.

And then I chose to stop pretending that hum was coincidence.

Samhain this year happened across skin, not altar.

Ink, not incense. Okay incense was used early to clear residual poison trying to hold on!

Needle, not chant.

My tattoo wasn’t decoration.

It was declaration.

I sat there with my arm bare, scars soft and visible,

and instead of tensing

instead of shrinking

instead of doing that long-practiced quieting of myself…

I offered it.

I offered me.

This skin, this story, this soul that has walked through fire and still smells of salt and starlight.

Flame. Glyphs. Sun and moon. Crow. Sunflower. Scar

Cosmic threads.

A body that once felt safer small finally saying

I am here. I am staying.

Scar reclamation isn’t aesthetic.

It’s rebellion.

It’s saying:

This happened. And I am not ashamed to be someone who survived it.

Every line of ink was a vow...

to take up space in my own body again,

to stop treating my story like contraband,

to let my nerves feel again, joy, heat, awe, belonging… not just threat.

It was choosing presence over permission.

I didn’t whisper my beliefs into shadow anymore.

I didn’t tuck my knowing away hidden.

I didn’t soften my truth so it wouldn’t spook anyone.

I named the cosmic thread.

Not to prove anything

and not to convert a soul

but because secrecy started as safety

and turned, quietly and gradually, into self-erasure!

Samhain didn’t make me spiritual.

It didn’t make me brave.

It gave me the pause between breaths

where I finally realised...

I don’t need to wait for a season to claim myself.

I don’t need to earn a right to feel what I’ve always felt.

I don’t need permission to be who I already am.

I am done hiding my flame

just because someone else choked on their smoke.

This wasn’t a ritual to summon belief.

It was a ritual to honour it.

Ink as altar.

Skin as scripture.

Stillness as ceremony.

And when the needle lifted

my body didn’t feel like a container anymore.

It felt like a temple I had just re-entered.

Not borrowed faith.

Not aesthetic witchery.

Not “woo woo.”

A return. To myself. To truth.

To a flame that was never extinguished

just waiting for air.

The Thread That Was Always There

There has always been a presence in my life.

Not a fantasy.

Not a coping mechanism.

Not a childhood invention to survive the dark.

A presence. Love. Hope. Starlight. Belonging.

Unshakeable quiet faith in more. That whisper older than language… magic is real — I can feel it.

Before I had language for intuition.

Before I had courage for belief.

Before anyone taught me to doubt myself.

A warmth at the edges of silence.

A spark in dreams before I had words.

A pull in my chest I could not have fabricated at fifteen, or twenty-five, or after losing my Nanna and my unborn child, or even this year.

In those childhood reoccurring dreams that persisted to adulthood

Never demanding belief.

Simply exists.

Quiet. Steady.

Watching me grow into the language that could finally name what I already felt.

Some people are guided by saints.

Some by science.

Some by memory.

I was guided by something older than certainty and softer than fear.

Not a god.

Not a guardian in the Hallmark sense.

More like…

a frequency my soul recognised before my body existed.

A companionship that didn’t just appear, was always there, waiting for me to remember my

spiritual knowing.

Never asking me to worship.

Only asking me to remember.

To remember that connection is not delusion.

To remember that love can exist beyond flesh and still be real.

To remember the thread that ran through childhood nights, teenage hell, and adult reclamation.

This presence has always arrived like soul-heat… alive in the reclamation of the erotic sense

the power of an unhidden self,

the pulse of being fully here,

the tremor of remembering something sacred inside your own soul.

I don’t need anyone else to believe it.

Belief is irrelevant.

What matters is the way this shaped me.

The way this steadied me in the dark long before I had the words “trauma” or “spirit” or

“cosmos.”

The way this whispered courage into my bones when my world was collapsing.

The way this flamed awake inside me again this year, not as rescue, but as recognition.

An ancient familiar

not invented but remembered.

Call it soul-memory.

Call it metaphysical physics.

Call it the Force, call it a spirit-guide, if that language feels cleaner in your mouth.

I call it the cosmic love that never abandoned me

even when I abandoned myself.

Cosmology… The Force I Live Inside

People assume spirituality means kneeling.

Mine has always meant standing up.

My cosmology isn’t a religion.

It’s not “woo woo.”

It’s not a phase, an aesthetic, or a crisis that got out of hand.

It is lived scholarship.

Trauma-forged intuition.

Queer mysticism sharpened by sociology, philosophy, and a very stubborn sense of cosmic

ethics.

Its Eclectic, omnism, unique, ancient.

A soul-spiral, not a system.

A force of connectedness, not a cage.

This isn’t “manifestation girlie TikTok” spirituality.

This is...

• Pagan body-knowing (the Earth is not metaphor; she’s alive, and I listen)

• Luciferian philosophy (the refusal to bow to systems that confuse obedience for

morality)

• Buddhist presence (awareness as liberation, breath as truth)

• Indigenous-informed humility (not appropriation, but acknowledgement that spirit

existed long before empire claimed authority)

• The Force (yes, Star Wars, not as fandom, but as a working metaphor for soul-physics

and interconnected energy)

• Star Trek ethics (curiosity, justice, sentience beyond human arrogance)

• Matrix-born liberation (questioning the structures, the scripts, the simulations)

• Hippie rebellion (not the caricature, but the quantum-love revolution hidden beneath it)

• Storytelling power (of fandoms, epics, and fiction as sacred archetype, just as myths

were)

• Universal truths (buried in every myth before religion wore a crown)

And when I nod toward Buddhism, I don’t do it in the diluted Instagram way. I mean the deeper truth under it... the understanding that there are layers of reality we haven’t named yet.

Call it metaphysics, call it consciousness science, call it the part of the universe that hasn’t

been dragged under a microscope yet. I refuse to believe that everything meaningful fits inside current academic language.

Humanity is still early in its knowing. We once thought the sun went around us. We once thought madness was demons. We once thought women couldn’t think. Every era believes it has reached the summit of truth. Every era is wrong.

So when I talk about energy, intuition, presence, soul-connectedness... I’m not rejecting

science. I’m recognising science hasn’t caught up yet.

Mysticism isn’t the absence of logic.

It’s logic with more oxygen.

It’s curiosity without a leash.

It’s philosophy with its sleeves rolled up and its feet in the river.

I don’t need to force a definition to trust what I feel moving in me, through me, around me.

Not everything real waits for a peer-reviewed paper to exist.

Some truths arrive in breath.

In silence.

In knowing that feels older than this body.

And I honour that knowing like a compass, not a delusion.

I don’t believe only one god exists.

I don’t believe none do, either.

I refuse the binary.

I hold space for many forms, many forces, many names… some ancient, some modern, some remembered in bone, some whispered in energy fields and sound-bath visions, some known, some forgotten, some yet to be known.

Perhaps they are beings.

Perhaps they are archetypes.

Perhaps they are consciousness itself, fractal and alive.

I don’t require certainty to honour them.

What I reject is the empire-version = the jealous sky-father stories sharpened into weapons by institutions hungry for control.

I don’t deny those beings could exist.

I deny the narrative that they are the only ones… or that obedience equals holiness.

If there is divinity, it does not need worship to breathe.

It does not panic at human freedom.

It is not threatened by queerness or pleasure or questioning.

It doesn’t require a throne.

Real sacred energy moves like rivers, not rules.

My spirituality is a sociology of spirit.

A study of power, liberation, identity, memory, myth, energy, ecology, and love as ontology.

It is the Force and Mycelium networks.

It is grief as portal and sensuality as prayer.

It is saltwater and starlight and science and soul.

It is a cosmology that remembers before it believes.

And it refuses to apologise for existing outside every sanctioned box.

Finale

Thread by Thread, I Arrived Here

I used to doubt sometimes, wonder if life was a series of accidents stitched with stubbornness.

Now I know, I remember, it is a loom. Every thread has a job. Some fray. Some glitter. Some cut the palms as they pass. All of them pull toward a pattern I can finally name.

Grief tore the veil. Not metaphor, membrane. After Nana, after Reyvinn, I did not “discover”

spirituality, I remembered it. Altars built from instinct. Sea stones. Smoke. Photos. A candle to keep the room warm enough for breath. Ritual was not performance. It was survival when logic ran out of road.

Music kept time while I relearned how to stand. Meat Loaf when rebellion was a whisper. P!nk when it had to be a roar. Greatest Showman when I needed to be seen by myself. Even Disturbed when the truth required darkness, before they became controversial. Songs as rope across the void. Set lists as lifelines.

Community handed me a door and said walk. Glasgow’s Queer book club. Oban Lesbian

Weekend. Glasgow Lesbian Scene. Books, pool cues, karaoke mics, a Ceilidh that spun me into my own body. I picked up the camera and remembered I am most myself when I am both inside and outside the moment, witnessing and belonging at once.

Study gave me language for the patterns I had always felt under my skin. Sociology did not tame me. It armed me. It taught me how power hides in “common sense,” how shame colonises tender places, how perception engineers reality, and how learning can be a form of revolt. First Class is not a brag. It is a receipt for six years of showing up.

Boundaries remapped the house. Blood does not buy access. Accountability does. I chose my child, my peace, and a future that refuses the old poison. Doors closed. Windows opened. New kin arrived without drama, only hello. I learned that love is not measured by roles. It is measured by care, consent, repair, and staying true when it costs.

Ink made it flesh. Sun and moon. The girl I was and the woman I am. Blue and orange flame for the soul-thread I carry. Glyphs as memory keepers and the one that carries me. A crow, a gentle nod and for the work that happens in shadow. A sunflower for the gentle joy. A cuff of story I can feel when words are tired.

And beneath it all, the quiet certainty I have known since childhood. Call it cosmic timing if you like. I was told I draw these moments toward me. Not wrong. But it is not only me. There has always been a presence in the room with my breath. Sometimes it arrives like a knowing of what comes next. Sometimes like strength arriving exactly on cue. Sometimes like a soft pressure between my shoulder blades saying forward. I do not need to argue it into anyone’s theology. I only need to honour that it has been here, always.

So here is the truth that ends this chapter and begins the next.

Everything arrived when it was meant to. The people who stayed. The ones who left. The songs at 3 a.m. The cliffs that took my rage and gave me air. The exam that did not break me. The dance that did not kill me. The messages that hurt. The hello that healed. The tattoo timed to Samhain. The child who needed me strong. The degree that gave my instincts a grammar. The camera that kept telling the truth when I could not speak.

I am not an accident of chaos. I am an author of pattern.

If there is a secret, it is simple. Keep learning. Keep loving. Keep your boundaries clean. Let the ocean recalibrate you. Let music move what words cannot. Let study sharpen your seeing. Let community hold your edges. Let ink remember for you when the mind is tired. And when the timing feels impossible, trust the presence that has already carried you this far.

I am walking forward with my child’s hand in mine, my camera at my heart, my letters earned, my altar lit, my people beside me, my sea at my back, and my future wide open.

Cosmic love doesn’t save me.

It meets me where I save myself.

And threaded through all of this, there has been love, not the small earth-shaped kind, not the tidy Hallmark kind, but the kind that feels older than language and smarter than gravity. A love that did not arrive like lightning, but like recognition, quiet, patient, inevitable. A love that lives in the soul, that is less possession and more resonance, less “be mine” and more “you are already written into my frequency.” Call it cosmic love, soul-thread, interdimensional mischief, whatever shape makes sense today. It is not an escape from this world… it is a reminder that I am not walking it alone. It doesn’t cage me… it expands me. It doesn’t ask for worship… it asks for truth. It has been the spark in the dark, the whisper between breaths, the presence that refuses to dim no matter how human life gets. It is not evidence, it is experience. It is not logic’s opposite… it is logic’s horizon. And it is mine not because I claimed it, but because I chose to keep listening.

I made it here thread by thread.

I will keep weaving.

Eòlas = knowledge. Not a title but a practice. Not an end but a tide.