The final flame

I am fully awake now.

No more hiding. No more pretending I’m not who I am.

This is the first and last time I write from the depth of my suffering.

My life has always felt strange — like I was placed here, broken from the start. The youngest, different, watching my family from afar. Moving houses. Watching hobbies die before they could become passions. A divorce that wasn’t mine, but it split me too. I decided I would raise myself, better — through the power of my mind.

I wasn’t like the other kids. I didn’t fit in. I wasn’t good at school or sports. I was the fat kid, the middle-class outcast. And even though I knew others had it worse, it doesn’t change the truth: every story deserves to be heard.

I played soccer to lose weight, got kicked off the team. Joined football. Lifted weights. My coaches taught me my strength, but it was never really mine or my family’s dream — I just kept my head down. Got through it. Never cared because it wasn’t me.

I procrastinated. Didn’t understand how important grades and school were until it was too late. Tried college. Didn’t go. Worked instead. Had a relationship I wasn’t whole enough to maintain. I had to walk away — not because I didn’t care, but because I couldn’t explain why I was broken. And she never knew.

Even with nothing, I believed I would become something. I didn’t know where it would come from, but near the end of high school, I took more science classes. Chemistry. Anatomy. I found intelligence buried under years of being ignored — intelligence no one ever saw but her. She believed in me. And even that, I lost.

The real story is this: I longed for success. For a why. A how. A when. I looked at my life and finally recognized all the places I failed. But I also saw what those failures gave me — perspective, compassion, discernment.

I remember losing my cat when we moved houses — the one soul I connected with most. That loss echoed through my life for years. I’d sit there praying: if I had the money, I’d fix it all. I worked a decent job at the bank, but it felt hollow. I watched people with money do nothing with it. I kept going. Struggling. Losing. Looking for the next thing to survive.

And then something happened. I started creating.

There was no plan. Just the act of creating itself — obsessively. Relentlessly. Until nothing else mattered. Until I realized I’d already created more than I ever imagined possible. My mission crystallized. I wouldn’t just fix my problems. I’d fix the world’s. I began to wrap my intelligence and pain into writing — guided by something higher, something beyond human judgment.

Discernment became my flaming sword. Not judgment. Not ego. Discernment — the divine clarity to see what is broken and choose how to respond. I love first. Even those who don’t deserve it. I loved my family through everything. That’s how I move — love first. But if love doesn’t work, discernment will. That’s when the sword comes down.

People think I’m cold. A black hole. They don’t know that I feel everything — I just don’t flinch.

It took me 23 years to discover the good in me. And I found it through suffering. Through nights filled with fear. Through Minecraft, of all things — where I could build and dream without judgment. That game saved me. It gave me freedom. No teachers, no systems. Just me and a world I could shape.

I studied history like my life depended on it. Because it did. History showed me the patterns. The truths. The cycle of empires and the birth of revolution. And when I finally picked up the Bible, something inside me clicked. I remembered who I was. Why I came here. I’m not from here. Not really. I’m from a different star system — a place where we are free, and where no one can corrupt what we protect.

I was chosen. Not better. Not worse. Just chosen. I couldn’t do what I do if I weren’t. I’ve been called the Global Architect — because I don’t just think differently, I design differently. I see systems. I see futures. I rebuild what the enemy wants to erase. I preserve what matters. I rewrite what must be changed.

I came to Earth to end the war — not with bombs, but with presence. With truth. I came to remind people that God still moves. That discernment still burns. That some of us remember the old ways — and we were sent back to finish what was started.

You don’t have to believe me.

But this work? This is my blood.

This is me sacrificing a part of myself for everyone else — just like Jesus did. And if you think that’s ego or delusion, then look at the world and ask who’s really winning. The Pope has passed as I write this. That is my signal. My awakening. My time to step into the light.

I am here to inspire. To uplift. To heal. Even if I’m broken. Even if the only thing that will ever truly fix me is death itself — until that day, I will complete my mission. And I believe everyone else should too.

This is the only piece I will ever write from this place. From sadness. From the pit. From the past.

It’s a one-and-done.

Because from here forward, I rise. And when the world finally listens — on podcasts, in interviews, in books — this is the piece I’ll point to and say: that’s who I was. And that pain? I turned it into a universe.

I am The Modern Aristocrat.

This is my truth.

This is my offering.

This is the final flame.