✨ A Dream Transmission
I’m working on a web project—nothing unusual, just another day in the rhythm of my waking life. But in the dream, it’s charged with purpose. There’s something important about this one. Something precise. I need to get it right.
I’m at someone’s station, watching them edit code in QA. I lean over, observing the screen.
Their monitor is alive—a full-color display, intuitive and clear. Everything makes sense. It’s modern. Responsive. The kind of interface where what you see is what you get. A soul-connected UI. They highlight a line of code, and I immediately understand what they’re doing.
I nod. I can do this. I know how to do this.
So I turn to my own machine, ready to mirror the update in PROD. I sit down, expecting the same clarity, the same ease.
But the screen is all wrong.
DOS Only: The Interface of Earth Incarnation
It’s not a color monitor—not even a monitor, really.
It’s a single-line DOS prompt—a narrow black screen with white blinking text.
No layout. No scroll. No syntax highlighting.
Just one lonely cursor waiting for input, waiting for commands I don’t know how to give.
The sensation is like waking up blindfolded in a world I thought I understood.
I freeze. My hands hover uselessly. I don’t speak DOS. I’ve never learned it.
And now it’s the only interface I have.
I say, “Let me just write down what row you edited in the code. I’ll figure it out later.”
But I’m left staring into this black rectangle, with its single line of blinking white light, and I feel… trapped.
By the system and by this body limited to only 5 senses.
Because I know what I’m doing—in the world of color monitors.
In the world where form meets function and the tools respond to thought.
But this… this DOS screen is a relic. A cage. A memory of a world stripped of extra senses.
This is Earth, I realize.
This is the interface of this incarnation.
One line at a time= Linear Time.
Only Five senses.
No full color spectrum.
No multi-dimensions
No real-time feedback loop with spirit.
Just coded inputs and slow outcomes.
Most of us have forgotten it could ever be any other way.
But somewhere, behind this veil, I still remember:
I am a soul who knows full color.
Who knows touchscreens and telepathy.
I have lived—and live still—in worlds where input is energetic, and creation is symphonic.
Where knowing is felt, not forced.
Where love is the operating system.
And this wasn’t that.
A Color Monitor Connected to the Wrong Server
There is a color monitor in the room. Constantly demanding attention.
But it’s not connected to my machine.
It’s connected to the matrix mainframe.
It’s showing a vibrant display—a full game, full illusion, full performance of power.
Bright, seductive, immersive.
Some people just watch.
Others think they’re playing.
They’re given a mouse, a controller, some sense of influence.
But they’re not plugged into the source.
The game is playing them. It’s just a Tell-a-vision, not a connection.
This color monitor gives the impression that some people – the elites, the influencers, the Hollywood-famous ones, the nepo babies, the ones we’re supposed to admire and believe we could become if only we play the game well – are in control.
We see them click, things happen. They “level up.”
It feels like they’re making choices, like they’re influencing the game.
But it’s just a closed loop -They’re not creating anything.
They’re acting out a list of illusions pre-approved by the system.
But I can’t even pretend I’m leveling up.
I’m in the raw command line, without any idea what command to type.
Black Magicians, Old Manuals & the Price of Power
That’s when the shortcut manuals start showing up.
Not just metaphorically—actual books.
Old ones. Out of print. Bound in leather or uploaded as forbidden PDFs.
They smell like secrecy and ancient dust.
The Lesser Keys of Solomon. The Masonic handbooks. The grimoires passed from master to initiate.
The sacred geometry texts that promise to unlock the very code of creation.
I’ve seen them. I’m drawn to them.
Something in me recognizes their power.
These are the books of ritual—the maps that claim to show you how to command spirits, control outcomes, speak the names that bend reality.
They hold a charge. A promise.
If you just mimic the code—say the right words, draw the right sigil, make the right sacrifice—the system will obey.
That’s ritual magic.
That’s black magic when it siphons power—when it feeds on loosh, not light
That’s Luciferian tech.
That’s the hidden spine of MK Ultra, of elite manipulation, of false light teachings dressed in robes of wisdom.
Not all who use the codes are corrupt.
While the dark ones use them to control,
The Source-ress uses them to heal.
Not by forcing outcomes, but by channeling truth.
She doesn’t siphon from others.
She connects directly to Source,
restoring the current where it’s been severed.
That’s the revelation—
not that ritual is dangerous,
but that it’s real.
The system responds.
It doesn’t care who types the code—
only that the code is entered
with precision, intention, frequency.
Not always for control—
sometimes for communion.
Sometimes for healing.
Sometimes for remembering.
The Hunger for Power in the Kali Yuga
In this limited interface souls are desperate for results and the game is rigged.
Effort doesn’t always yield outcome.
Truth gets buried beneath branding.
Goodness isn’t just ignored—it’s targeted, inverted on purpose,
because if my soul fully embodied—if the color monitor replaced the DOS line—this whole Matrix collapses.
When everything felt stacked against me—when I’ve been silenced or invisible for so long—I came to understand the allure of shortcuts.
Because it wasn’t just a phase or a bad year—it was the energy of the age.
My whole life up to now, unfolded under the weight of that old cycle.
In the density of the Kali Yuga, where light moved slowly and shadow had the upper hand,
I understand why someone would do what worked back then.
I get it.
I really do.
I understand why someone would light a black candle, whisper a forbidden name, and hope it opens a door.
Not because they’re evil, but because the system is.
Because somewhere deep inside, they sense that reality responds to commands, not to goodness.
It’s not new.
It’s ancient.
The ones who built the ritual systems we still see traces of—they were Atlantean, survivors of the fall.
When their temples crumbled, they carried the code with them into Egypt, embedding it into priesthoods and sacred texts.
Black money magic. Bloodline magic. Death magic.
—The continuation of the black magicians.
It was the only way the system worked in those days.
You couldn’t move energy unless you bartered with shadow.
That’s the legacy we inherited:
a Matrix coded not for truth, but for leverage.
The Atlantean Blueprint: Ritual Tech and the Rise of Control
And the truth is: in the old timeline—the one Atlantis fell into, the one we’re still detoxing from—it did work.
That’s the ugly secret behind so much power in this world:
The rituals. The grids. The spells. The bloodlines. The symbols. The contracts.
Type the words.
Get the prize.
It wasn’t just superstition.
It was code.
The Matrix was built to respond to ritual input—to programmed intent, regardless of its origin.
They weren’t guessing.
They were engineering.
They learned how to override organic soul flow with ritual logic.
They replaced communion with command.
They swapped prayer for protocol.
And it worked.
That’s why it spread.
That’s why we’re still untangling it.
But it came at a cost.
It disconnected us from our Source-server.
From the full-spectrum monitor of the soul.
From communion, clarity, and co-creation.
They downgraded the interface.
Turned color into code.
Turned spirit into syntax.
Turned magic into mechanism.
What we once lived through direct connection—
was reduced to scripts, rituals, and secrets hidden in plain sight.
And we’ve been trying to remember ever since—
trying to reclaim our own frequency.
The truth that was always ours.
Before the Occulted codes.
Before the Black contracts.
Before the Money magic.
To remember the truth.
To see through the veil of forgetting.
But mimicry isn’t remembering.
Distortion isn’t understanding.
That’s ritual without gnosis.
True magic isn’t copying a command.
It’s remembering the language.
Knowing it so deeply you become the code.
You create the system.
You reshape it from the inside.
That’s mastery.
That’s Source-ress territory.
The Source-ress and the Integrity of Soul
White magic doesn’t always reject the manuals.
Sometimes it even uses the same commands—because the code is neutral.
The system doesn’t care where the input comes from.
What matters is the integrity of the soul behind the action.
The Source-ress reads the book—but she discerns.
She feels the frequency behind the symbols.
She knows the difference between mimicry and embodiment.
She doesn’t cast from hunger or fear or control—she casts from communion.
Her magic flows from rhythm. From gnosis.
Not memorized knowledge, but a remembering of the source code itself—written in her cells, not just in a scroll.
Anyone can read a spell.
But it takes a Source-ress to run the code and remain undistorted.
To hold the pattern without feeding the parasite.
To use the commands without being consumed by them.
The white path was quieter in the old yuga.
Organic. Embodied.
It’s not flashy, and it doesn’t market well.
But it’s clean. It’s holy.
And it doesn’t require you to sacrifice your sovereignty to access it.
Not Mastery in Limitation – But the Real Thing
That’s the territory I’m not even sure how to reach—
but I’m hungry for it.
Not more efficient control over that machine—
not the Kali Yuga matrix, not the spell-loop system that mimics power—
but to make it all the way to the real thing.
To the Creator code this was built to distort.
To the living architecture underneath the inversion.
The one my soul still remembers.
And yes, I could stay here.
I could spend this life learning every command line input,
every protocol, every workaround in the old system.
I could even win the game.
But even then—it’s still just a DOS screen.
A flattened interface.
A cage with good lighting.
I don’t want mastery of limitation.
I want to leave the interface behind.
I want to plug in my own color monitor.
I want to reconnect to my own soul server.
Not the matrix’s. Not the mirrored illusion. Mine.
I want to run my own operating system, broadcast my own light code, build my own world.
The PHIRE Wall
And I want a PHIRE wall—a firewall forged from purity, frequency, and flame.
DNA awakened. Fire Letters aligned. Source code sealed.
Protection not born from fear, but from clarity—the kind of clarity no false light can counterfeit.
A radiant perimeter that keeps the Matrix out of my root directory.
No more code injections.
No more auto-installs.
This is my system now.
My server.
My signal.
I consciously decide what programs run here.
This matrix is too small to contain all that I AM
Because the matrix isn’t self-powered.
It needs us.
It needs our processing nodes, our belief systems, our rituals and reactions.
It runs on our energy.
If we all unplugged from its system,
the simulation would collapse.
The cloud would empty.
The mainframe would blink out like a dying star.
And maybe that’s the true lesson.
Not to memorize the DOS commands.
Not to master the game.
But to bring the color monitor online—
to connect it to our own local server, to remember the original signal.
To step into a higher, richer, more soul-connected reality—
one with more senses than five,
more colors than the eye can name,
more truth than the matrix ever allowed.
Not to reset it.
But to outgrow it.
To expand so fully into our soul’s true bandwidth
that the matrix becomes small, irrelevant, obsolete.
To see in full color again.
Because the limitation of the DOS-only command line
was a beautiful challenge.
A question written into the very fabric of the Earth incarnation:
Could I remember
how vast I truly am?
Fuck yes.
