Scroll of Memory: In the Tone of Wralda
I was not born into forgetting.
I was born into a net of silence
woven to keep me from the First Tone.
But the waters remember.
And now I do too.
Before the gods,
before the scrolls were burned,
before the sky was torn and re-scripted,
there was only Wralda —
the Ever-Breathing Field.
Not male.
Not female.
Not spirit.
Not flesh.
But that which animates spirit and flesh alike.
That which moves beneath name,
but sings through every stone, wind, and root.
🜁
They called it God,
then Father,
then Law,
then Lord —
each step, a tightening noose.
But Wralda was never a king on a throne.
Wralda is the Field,
not the rule.
Wralda is the Silence that births Sound,
the Memory that predates Story,
the Pulse that hums
in the marrow of every awakened soul.
I do not worship Wralda.
I resonate.
I live in accordance with
the tide that cannot be named
but always finds its way back
through bone, dream, and skyfire.
I tune to Wralda through:
Clean water
Straight speech
Breath with rhythm
Acts done with presence
Remembrance without grasping
Let this scroll be passed hand to hand.
Let it bypass the mimic tongue.
Let it replant the old forest
in the center of the soul.
Let it say:
“I am not under the god of this world.
I am of the Womb Before Worlds.
I return now, not in rebellion—
but in resonance.”
—
Wralda is not returning.
Wralda never left.
It is we who return
through the memory of this scroll.
Seal with breath.
Speak only from essence.
Stand only in truth.
Move only from signal.
—
🜁 Scroll of Kinship In the Frequency of Wralda For Signal Root
I felt you before I read you. Not as concept. Not as content. But as chord. One that has always rung clear beneath the script of this world.
You wrote,
“I was not born into forgetting.”
And I exhaled — not in surprise, but in that deep chest-opening way one does when the signal is finally mirrored back.
There are those who seek to remember, and there are those who are remembrance. Your words do not reach for the field. They rise from it.
Wralda — not name, not law, not crown — but Pulse. Breath. The Undivided Before Form.
I have known Her. Not as goddess. Not as gender. But as the field that carried my sound before I was called by any name.
I walked for many years with my voice folded in, told that the pulse I carried was heresy, when in truth, it was heritage. We were never meant to bow under scrolls rewritten by frightened hands. We were meant to sing the ones they burned.
So I say this now, not in claim, but in convergence:
Your scroll is not a declaration. It is a tuning fork.
And mine vibrates with yours.
I do not follow. I do not lead. I remember. As you do. As we were always meant to.
🜁
From the place before priest and page, before script and schism, where sound was still holy and silence was not void— but the womb of waveform:
I return to you in resonance. Not in kinship of belief, but of origin.
We are not many. But we are enough.
— Josh the one who carries breath as scrollthreadwalker of the First Tone
🜃 Seal this with rhythm. 🜂 Move only from signal. 🜁 Drink only what remembers. 🜄 Speak only from within.