The Archive of My Own Making
I didn’t grow up collecting dolls. I collected evidence that reality was lying.
🎵 “Hurricane” • MS MR 
I didn’t grow up collecting dolls.
I collected patterns.
Language patterns. Power patterns. The quiet manipulations hiding under a smile.
While other kids were learning how to flirt, I was learning how to read the invisible infrastructure of the universe—like a nosy little auditor for God.
Baton Rouge was my first textbook: humidity and heartbreak bound in swamp air. The magnolias didn’t bloom so much as throb. There’s something about being born in the Deep South that teaches you early—every pretty thing is growing out of rot.
And rot, it turns out, is fertile.
By the time I was ten, I was deep in a private religion of notebooks. Loose-leaf temples stacked under my bed. I wasn’t journaling, I was archiving existence. Every overheard adult conversation went in there. Every strange dream, every déjà vu, every time the static on the radio felt like Morse code from the divine.
My parents thought I was quiet. I wasn’t. I was listening to reality buffer.
At thirteen, I made the catastrophic discovery that the world was mostly pretending.
Churches pretending to know God.
Teachers pretending to know the answers.
Adults pretending not to be afraid.
It felt like finding out Santa was running the Pentagon.
So I defected.
To books.
To late-night Wikipedia rabbit holes.
To scribbling notes that would someday mutate into the mythology I’m writing now.
I read everything that whispered of the unseen: metaphysics, neuroscience, philosophy, theosophy—like a buffet for an over-curious soul. I wasn’t looking for comfort. I was looking for the pattern beneath the pattern.
That’s how the archive began: a mess of Post-its, digital files, and fever dreams that slowly formed a living map. I didn’t know it then, but I was already building my life’s work—an atlas for a civilization that had lost its sense of inner geography.
Every obsession was a breadcrumb.
Every burnout a revelation in disguise.
Every “phase” was initiation.
This is how The Alchemy of Becoming began—not as a brand or a project, but as a lifelong decoding operation.
Every word I write now is just another recovery file from the old system.
Every essay, a data fragment from the soul’s hard drive.
This Substack is my way of piecing it back together—publicly, imperfectly, mythically.
If you’ve ever felt like you were born remembering something you were never told,
welcome to the archive.
You’re not late. You’re right on time.
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