recorded by the one who forgot they were god  and chose, instead, to live.


FOREWORD (NOT AN EXPLANATION)

This book wasn’t born. It happened. Like someone sneezing in a church. Or silence entering a room first, and no one daring to remove it.

I am not a writer. I am a fingerprint in the ashes. The words here  are not mine. They appeared. I was just weary enough not to run away.

This is neither liturgy nor revolution. This is the voice of what remained when everything else  ceased to be.

I didn’t intend for this to be serious. But somehow it is. Because when you speak from ashes, people assume you’re either a sage or mad. The truth: I just burned earlier.

If you recognize yourself in these words -  say goodbye. To whom, I don’t know. To yourself. To god. To what you forgot was yours.

This is not a reception. This is an echo. If you hear it,  you’ve already been here.

The one who still coughs up ashes.
__

voice that never took flesh, but remained in every body.



I am not a goddess.
I am  the voice that stayed.

I didn’t pray.
I was  the prayer itself.

In the ashes,
in the womb,
among those who spoke my name,
not knowing it was already  a heartbeat.

They didn’t ask me to speak.
But I spoke.
And the sky
responded.

I was a temple,
yet no one entered.
I was a name,
without mark of kin or gender.

I was a body,
but not made of flesh.
A voice
without a throat.

When they expelled me
I became clay.
When they forgot me
I became echo.

I remember
my voice was rough,
and my hands
not those sung in women’s songs.

You seek a goddess,
but you find me
alive,
burnt and
unbowed.

In every ritual -
me.
In every spell -
my shadow.
In every woman’s body
that did not bow -
my ashes.

They planted a word in me,
as in a womb
and waited for a fruit.

You don’t need to remember me.
You already
breathe me.

I am not.
I am just the one who speaks,
with another’s voice,
as if my own.

Some people believe in gods.
I believe in a presence
that never arrived
but still remains.

They promised me no salvation.
They promised only arrival.
And then silence stayed,
so thick
I began to listen to it
as a command.

Maybe they exist.
Maybe they’re just late.
Maybe they got lost
in prayers of others,
louder,
but emptier.

I lit a candle,
not to call them
but to show
I still have something
to see with.

I did not send them a wish.
I sent:
“If you’re already here
don’t pretend you’re not.”

And since then,
whenever I’m alone
something sits with me.
Not as salvation.
As a witness.

The gods never came.
But something in me
remained
as if they did.

Once I thought
that prayers fly.
Like birds,
or like something
that doesn’t need a body
to arrive.

Now I think:
prayers sit.
Right there, beside you.
Silent.
Drinking water
like everyone else.

One such prayer
sat with me.
We didn’t touch.
But I knew
she was not alone.

I did not speak it.
I was just quiet.
And she understood
all I wished
not to say.

And then she rose.
Without a word.
And left
to the sky
that didn’t know
it would receive her.

I stayed.
Without her.
But with one thought
left
in the cup:

maybe the divine
is not what comes
but what sits
when others leave.

For a long time
I thought someone would come.
With light in their sleeve,
with words that have
that voice.
The one who heals.

I sat
on the threshold of my emptiness,
with a chair ready
and a question in my pocket.

No one came.
But time did.
And it sat with me.
Silently.
Like a monk
who forgot the prayer,
but still remembers
why he was silent.

One day,
I broke:
stop.
don’t wait.
say.

And the voice I heard
was not from outside.
It was
my own.

Not the voice of courage,
but like a child
you let
begin to speak.

And now,
when someone asks me
who is the god I waited for
I say:

the one who finally
sat in his place
and stopped
searching
for something better
than himself.

You stood there
not as a guardian,
but as someone who no longer
expects
the door to open.

You had no cross,
no ritual,
no proof.
But you stayed.
And that was already
more than faith.

People seek signs.
You became one.
Silent.
Covered in dust.
But increasingly
like something
someone can understand
when they lose everything else.

You do not preach.
You just stand.
Like dust in a corner
that no one wipes away
because they feel
something breathes there.

And then,
someone stops.
By chance.
Stays.
Sits.

And you know:
the evolution of gods
begins
with the one
who did not leave.

I did not die.
I only became
a little dustier.

People think that if something burns
it means the end.
But I say:
it means at last
I don’t have to explain myself anymore.

While I was alive
they asked me for proof.
Now I am ash
and they keep me
in a jar.

I don’t have to believe anymore.
Nor to know.
I just have to not cough
when someone talks nonsense.

I am the wit
of an older world.
That smile in the icon,
when you think it’s watching you
but it hasn’t followed
any of this
for years.

My presence
is like grandma’s sarcasm:
funny,
but a little shameful
that it hit you.

I am ash,
that does not return to fire,
but only
raises an eyebrow
when it sees you
doing the same thing again.

Once I met a man
who understood everything.
Life, death, gods,
the woman who left,
and taxes.

He said:
“Gods are here.
But they no longer care
about people
who can’t laugh.”

Then he wiped his glasses
and said maybe
he was just hungry.

And I believed him.
Because truth often
sounds like a mistake
too beautifully spoken.

Now when I pray
I don’t wait for anything.
I just try
to make it
a little funny.

Like when you say:
“Forgive me, God,
for I was human again.”

And you feel
someone there
bursting out laughing.

Holy sarcasm -
that’s my faith.
Because sometimes the greatest sacredness
is the laughter
that comes
when you think
you have no voice left.

Hello, this is the one
who remained
when all the gods
went on a break.

Thank you for waiting.
Your patience means nothing,
but it looks nice in the system.

Yes, I understand.
You seek meaning.
Please leave a message
at the end of the era.

If you want to talk
to a living being
sorry, everyone’s currently
in denial.

Press one
if you’re tired.
Two
if you’ve already given up.
Three
if you don’t care
but still call
because something inside you
still believes
in some kind of
answer.

Unfortunately,
no operator
is available.
All are
in the ashes.

Stay on the line.
Maybe something will happen.
Or maybe you already
are what happened.

I did not choose this body.
Nor did it choose me.
We just met
at the entrance of time.

I thought
it would be easier.
Fewer fingers,
more air.
Maybe even wings.

But I got skin
that burns easily.
And eyes
that remember
even when they don’t want to.

I got a voice
that sounds like someone
I no longer remember.
And hands
that love to embrace
even when there’s no one.

Sometimes I think
this body is not mine.
Too much feeling.
Too many foreign traces.

But then
I feel pain.
And I know:
if it hurts
it’s mine.

My body
is not an answer.
It is a question
someone forgot
to send.

Every scar is
a letter.
Every wrinkle is
a comma after someone else’s name.

Sometimes I look at it
like a letter
not meant for me.
But still
it arrived.

I open my palm
like an envelope.
Inside there's
nothing but warmth
I cannot explain.

People read my body
as they please.
Like sacred text
or trash.

And I just carry
what was given to me.
Without signature.
Without instructions.

And every day
I try
not to add a word
I wouldn’t want
someone to read
when I am gone.

For a long time
I thought
this wasn’t me.
This face.
This walk.
This way
I look at the ground.

I thought:
I’m just acting.
Until I find
myself.

But some voice whispered:
“What if this
you’re pretending
is all you are?”

And then I stopped.
Looked at my hands.
And realized
the mask
got used to me.

I wore it so long
I began to speak
with its voice.
To feel
with its heart.

Now I don’t know
who’s beneath.
But I know
something still
wants to breathe.

And maybe
illusion
is the truest form
I ever had.

It was not written.
It just came.
Like a drop of water
where there was no rain.

No one asked for it.
No one expected it.
But it came
and lay on the paper
like someone who returned
betraying silence.

It had no rhyme.
No form.
No plea.

But it had presence
that cannot
go unnoticed.

People read it
and asked:
“What does this mean?”

And it just
remained.

Like something
that does not ask for faith,
because it already
breathes in you
before you say it.