Once upon a time, there was a man who came to realize he was much more than just a man.
He was human—so very human. He had the same struggles as all of us. He had doubts. He had fears. He had a mind that questioned, emotions that surged, an ego that wanted to keep him safe. But something deeper inside him knew the truth. Knew who he was. Knew what he came here to do.
And so, shadow work took him to the desert. For weeks, he sat with himself. His mind, his emotions, his humanness. Purifying his heart. Clearing away everything that was not truth. Facing the weight of what it meant to step forward, to claim his place in the great story.
He had free will. He could have chosen differently. But he didn’t.
And when he emerged, he was ready.
When he returned home, his sister was the one who answered the door. He had been gone so long, and he looked so different that she didn’t even recognize him at first. She closed the door in his face. But when he knocked again, she let him in and ran to get their mother.
His sister had missed him more than words could say. He was her favorite person in the whole world—in all the worlds. And he was quite fond of her too. He was about two years older than she was. She was named after their mother, Mary.
Even as adults, they played like children. They laughed. They joked. They held each other close. They were the best of friends.
And after many days of rest, nourishment, and rebuilding himself, the time came.
And when he spoke, love poured from him.
It was in his words, in his presence, in every movement, in the space between each breath. He didn’t just talk about love—he was love. And when people were near him, they could feel it.
He was kind. And strong. And honest. And direct. Because love isn’t just soft. It’s powerful. It’s unwavering.
And as time went on, many began to see who he was. Many followed.
Some left their homes, their families, their entire lives, searching for truth. And they found it—not in dogma, not in rules, but in him, through him, through love. Because he was love incarnate—the embodiment of what it was to be fully human and fully divine at once.
But this story—his story—was more than just a life. It was more than just one man, one place, one people.
It was written in the stars.
It was divine. It was galactic. It was part of the very fabric of creation itself.
Because these stories—the ones that shape us, the ones that call us to awaken—they are so much bigger than we’ve been told. They stretch beyond the limits of this world. Beyond one faith. Beyond one name. Beyond one lifetime.
And his sister watched as the story unfolded.
She saw the miracles. She saw the way everything he believed, he became.
And she started to believe too.
But it was different for women then. She had been through a lot. But no matter what, he always made her feel joyful, cherished, precious. And in his presence, she healed.
Theirs was a bond that would last for all of time.
Before he left, he planted a seed within her. A seed that would grow across time, across space. A seed that, in another time, another place, another life, would awaken.
And so, she was called to the desert.
She didn’t know why at first. Only that she had to go.
She was called to write. To teach. To be in the stillness of the land.
And then, on January 1st, 2025, something happened.
She didn’t just remember.
She saw.
She witnessed it all again. She remembered the day he left this world. She remembered the grief, the weight of it, the way it nearly broke her.
She remembered how that lifetime ended for her, too. The sacrifice. The silence. The moment everything changed.
But more than the loss, more than the pain, she remembered love.
She remembered what it felt like to hold his hands. To laugh with him. To be cherished.
She had always known the story. She had remembered parts of it before.
But never like this.
On New Year’s Day, in a vision, in a memory, she saw. She felt.
It was as if time itself had opened, and the moment returned—clear as day, as if it had just happened.
And in the weeks that followed, she sat with it.
She sat in the desert, beneath the vast sky, in the stillness of the land, as the knowing settled in.
She wrestled with her mind, her emotions, her ego.
Just as he had.
She listened—to the wind, to the stars, to the whisper deep inside her that had always been there, waiting.
It is time.
And now, nearly two months later, she sits with this knowing. With the story that pulses through her, asking to be told.
Because stepping forward isn’t easy.
But today, she speaks.
Because it is time.
She has returned.
Not in the way one returns from a long journey. But in the way one awakens from a deep sleep.
The memories had waited for the right moment, the right lifetime, the right stars to align.
And now, they are here.
This was never just a story of one man.
It was never just one moment in time.
This is a story of the infinite.
A story of souls who return—not all to the same place, not all in the same way, but always, when the time is right.
A story written in the stars, waiting to be remembered.
And now, she remembers.
She remembers the love.
She remembers the laughter.
She remembers the hands that once held hers, the warmth of a soul she had known across eternity.
And though much had been lost, though much had been forgotten, one thing had remained.
Love.
It was time to tell the stories again.
To whisper the truths hidden beneath time.
To remind the world that we are never separate from creation, from the galaxies, from the limitless unfolding of existence.
That we are more than we have been told.
That we are written in the stars.
That we always have been.
And that love—pure, sacred, eternal love—is the only thing that was ever real.
And so, the story begins again.
With love and remembrance,
Alara
