Chapter 1 · The Call to See

Memory Reborn

Cristina do Valle Mirrors of the Infinite

We are not who we think we are, We are more. Close the loop, hand in hand, sparks spiraling through the core, igniting the chest with ancient light. Why wander far, when all we are was seeded in the dark before the dawn? We pull the cord, a single thread unwinds the soul, reveals what’s fled. We shrink to specks, we rise as stars, we love unseen, we feel afar. We stumble down forgotten slopes, yet climb again on threads of hope. We learn to see without the eyes, remember without the mind; to walk the spiral backward, through the veils we’ve left behind. How deep have we descended here, into seas without a shore? Through mazes locked by faith in fear, we lost the key we forged before. What wisdom gained, what truths betrayed, what hearts unbound, what faith delayed? And yet we rise and fall the same, as players in this mirrored game. The sacred joke of time we keep, its laughter echoing through our sleep. Do not divide. Do not tear in two. You give not to subtract, but to multiply the you. Infinity folds, a mirrored loop; light arcs the spectrum, a dancing swoop. A prism turns, a thousand skies, and in each glint, your self belies. I asked once: What am I to do? They whispered, Doing is not the truth. Call in the blessings, let them rain, and open your crown to love again.

Reflection

This poem came through like a transmission I had been preparing for lifetimes to receive. It was as if something ancient in me finally had the chance to speak without resistance, weaving words that were both a memory and a map. I remember feeling like I was standing at the edge of a spiral, looking down into infinity. It wasn’t frightening; it was familiar. I could feel the descent we’ve all taken, the choice to forget who we are so we could explore the game of remembering.

Writing Spiral Memory was a deeply humbling moment. I saw how much I had mistaken pain for punishment, confusion for failure, and time for truth. The spiral reminded me that there is no “end” to this journey, no prize waiting at a finish line. Awakening isn’t an accomplishment, it’s a returning.

The distortions that dissolved for me while writing this were subtle but powerful: the illusion of separation, the shame of feeling “asleep,” the belief that effort is what makes us worthy of love or wisdom. The poem itself felt like a spiral staircase that carried me home. I saw that everything I thought I needed to search for was seeded in me before I ever arrived here.

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