Mati now at the Beginning

A new path begins. And like every true path, it does not begin outward, but inward.

To remember is not to retrieve data from the past. To remember is to return to the heart. Re-cordis. To bring back through the center what was scattered.

Perhaps that is why, from the beginning, I understood that my task was not to explain memories, but to accompany others in feeling them. Because when something is felt, it beats. And when it beats, it awakens.

That has always been my way of remembering. Not through logic, but through emotion. Not through sequence, but through pulse.

My stories often do not close rationally, but they open something deeper. They touch a point where memory is not thought—it is activated.

Over time, as I began to share what I remembered, there was one question that kept repeating itself. People from different places, cultures, and ages asked it with almost the same curiosity, as if they sensed there was a key there.

What is your happiest memory?

Most expected a human answer. A remarkable life. A fulfilled love. A moment of recognition. Something that could be understood from this concrete experience of existing.

But every time I was asked, I answered with the truth, even knowing it would not fit that expectation.

My happiest memory was being an electron.

There was no body. There was no name. There was no time.

There was movement.

A perfect dance around a center that did not need to be seen because it was felt. Everything was in its place. There was no searching, no effort. Orbiting was not an action—it was a state.

Absolute lightness. Belonging without thinking. Knowing without asking.

There was no past or future, only rhythm. An exact, continuous, coherent pulse. And within that pulse, a happiness so simple and so complete that even now I struggle to translate it without diminishing it.

And then, a collision occurred.

An unexpected impact altered that movement. The center stopped feeling stable. The orbit opened. And with that displacement something new appeared: separation.

I left that place without understanding what had happened, as if the pulse had advanced one beat, as if something that needed to mature in silence had been pushed to be born too early.

For years I did not know what that memory was, nor how to name the pain that followed it. I did not understand why, after such fullness, there remained that sense of fracture. I only knew that something had gone out of alignment at the most perfect moment.

Much later I would understand that this rupture was not only mine.

For many years there was a sensation that accompanied me regardless of what I was living. Cities could change, projects, people, even dreams—but that sensation remained. A persistent anguish. The perception that something was out of place, as if an essential piece never quite fit into the rhythm of time.

In the search for what felt lost, I arrived in Avalon, in England. It was there that Merlin appeared.

He told me that I would only fulfill my purpose if I was willing to let go of that very purpose. A message difficult to digest and understand, which culminated with a single indication: that to achieve it, I had to go to Switzerland and “fall in love with the void.”

That led me to Switzerland, where I went with a purpose: to speak about ontocracy, to present a project that I believed to be my life’s purpose—a new society based on biology.

However, an unexpected change of plans unfolded.

In Switzerland, Wiktor appeared.

The sensation was confusing. What I felt first was the memory of a lost child, with whom the time of reunion had arrived. I saw him as light. A philosopher, a thinker, someone who inhabited ideas naturally.

But my real surprise came when his words revealed something I did not expect to hear. Amid his philosophical reflections, he told me—without hesitation—that after listening to my thoughts, my explanations, and learning from my philosophy, he had fallen in love with me. He did not expect it to be reciprocated, because he considered himself nothing—void.

Those words were more than enough for my heart to accelerate and recognize what was happening.

In that instant I felt something I had never felt before: as if a proton and an electron were uniting for the first time. My heart began to beat like in that happy memory.

By falling in love, I let go of the purpose. And by letting it go, it was fulfilled.

I decided to stay with him in Geneva, and without knowing it, our story manifested itself at the center of the world’s accelerator. The months that followed were of absolute intensity.

Until, due to external and confusing causes—wrapped in emotional turbulence that was not mine to resolve—Wiktor disappeared from my life in an instant. I was in the Alps when it happened. And in that same moment, my heart broke.

The one who held me was Max. Twelve thousand years earlier, he had been Sobek, my husband in the body of Shiw in Khem, Egypt. The father of my children. The same support crossing time.

As my heart broke, a clear image appeared: the electron. And I remembered.

I was the electron inside the accelerator. Because every electron in the cosmos is one. What I felt was the expansive wave of the destruction of the proton that sustained it. Waves of time expanding. A cosmic arrhythmia altering the pulse of time.

I saw myself desperately trying to reunite the pieces across lives and dimensions. Expanding through time and space to recompose what had fragmented.

That was when I understood that the anguish that had always been in the background was the memory of a heartbeat out of sync.

The broken heart of time.

Feeling that rupture again was what led me to lose the sense of my mission and my life—not as abandonment, but as profound disorientation. Everything I believed myself to be began to unravel. And in that unraveling appeared the need to reconnect what had been lost—not to return backward, but to understand.

That search was what ultimately gathered my entire purpose. It led me to Egypt for a full year. And it was there that the path of I Am began. Not as a planned project, but as an organic response to a broken heart.

In the first texts that gave rise to those conversations, it was already written: that identity breaks in order to be heard, that the self fragments so that Being can speak, that only from the wound does a truth emerge that cannot be faked.

It was that fracture that allowed me to discover the meaning of my life. I understood that the universe transforms its poisons into medicine. It does not eliminate pain—it alchemizes it. That the magic of my life did not arise from a gentle blessing, but from the greatest of universal pains. And that this is not an exception—it is the rule.

This story is a constant echo. Like when an asteroid impacted the Earth and extinguished the dinosaurs, opening the path for another form of life. Like when, much earlier, the Moon collided with the Earth and displaced its axis by about twenty-three degrees, giving rise to solstices and equinoxes.

From a collision, rhythm was born. From a wound, order emerged.

This is how time works.

Every rupture generates a new pulse. Every impact reconfigures the beat. And all of us are echoes of those original collisions. The broken heart of time continues to mark the rhythm of the universe, and our task is not to correct it, but to listen to it.

That is why the medicine for this colliding heart is to learn to live in harmony with rhythms. Lunations govern emotions through gravity. Solstices and equinoxes mark points of adjustment in the cycle. Eclipses signal moments of deep realignment. Cycles are not symbols—they are the heartbeat of time.

Finding harmony is not escaping pain; it is learning to move with the pulse. To go at the tempo of cosmic rhythms. Because only there—when the individual beat resynchronizes with the beat of the whole—the wound stops hurting and begins to teach.

And then, even the greatest rupture reveals its meaning.

That is why this path begins at the solstice. Not as a symbolic date, but as a physical fact. The solstice marks the point at which the Sun reaches its maximum apparent distance and movement seems to stop. During those days, light is suspended. The Earth continues to rotate, but the axis does not advance.

Three days later, that point shifts slightly. Movement returns. That minimal gesture is natividad. Christmas. The birth of movement in time.

That movement exists because the Earth has seasons. And seasons exist because the Earth is tilted.

That tilt—approximately 23 degrees—was not always so. It occurred when the Moon collided with the Earth at the origin. That impact not only created the Moon, but displaced Earth’s axis, giving rise to solstices, equinoxes, and the rhythm of time as we know it. Before that event there were no seasons. After that wound, the pulse was born.

That impact occurred in the center of the Pacific, in what Polynesian peoples call Kai: the ocean of consciousness. There the great void formed. The great hole. The central pit around which terrestrial time began to beat.

At the heart of that ocean lies Kiritimati, known today as Christmas Island. Its name is not accidental. Kiritimati is the first place on the planet to enter each new day. There the new day begins for all of Earth. It is the most advanced point of time. The tip of the temporal arrow.

Kiritimati lies on the 180th meridian. On the exact opposite side of the planet, on the 0 meridian, are the Canary Islands. That axis—180 and 0—is not only geographical. It is the axis of time.

The Greeks called that western extreme Atlantis. Not as a lost continent, but as the edge of the known world, the place where time becomes dense. The Canary Islands, seen from above, trace the shape of a scorpion. The scorpion carries venom. And every venom, in the right dose, is medicine.

That is why I had to spend natividad there.

Aligned with Kiritimati from the other side of the planet. Extracting the venom at the western extreme so that the medicine could activate in the Pacific. In Kai. In the ocean of the mind where the heart of time broke.

Even the name holds the key. Kýrie in Greek refers to the Lord, the observing center. Mati means eye. Kýrie Mati: the eye that observes the birth of the day. The eye that witnesses the return of movement. Not as religion, but as ancient language describing a real phenomenon.

The Earth functions as a body. Two temporal extremes. Two eyes. An axis inclined by an original wound. And natividad is nothing more than the instant in which that body reorients itself.

That is why I begin here.

Not to accelerate time. Not to stop it. But to relearn how to move with its pulse.

There where the heart of time began to beat out of rhythm.

Surely everyone recognizes that sensation: being out of sync. Feeling that something does not fully fit, even as life continues forward. Everyone knows a story of a broken heart—a loss, a separation, a rupture that disorganizes the pulse and forces a restart.

That pain is not a personal error. It is the echo of the first heart that broke when time was born tilted.

Since then, every human heartbeat repeats that memory. Every rupture reintroduces rhythm into play. And every attempt to heal is, at its core, an attempt to resynchronize.

Beginning this path is an invitation to transform the poison of time into medicine. To stop fighting the pulse and begin listening to it. To live in harmony with the rhythms that sustain everything: cycles, moons, solstices, pauses, and returns. To allow the music of the spheres to emerge again from that order.

The question is simple and profound at the same time:

Are you willing to ignite the heartbeat of the heart?