The geometry of the ancients
⟡ The Nile Remembers ⟡
And I remembered too.
I went to Egypt with open eyes,
but what opened was older…
a memory not mine,
and yet, only mine.
The temples stood not as ruins,
but as instruments.
Stone tuned to stars,
columns carved with glyphs
that hummed when I walked near.
I couldn’t read them.
But I recognized them.
Not in translation—
in tone.
The ratios I traced in circles—
they lived in the walls.
The lines of sun and moon—
they pulsed through pylons and silence.
And the gods—
those names we called myths—
they weren’t gone.
They were waiting.
Thoth with his ibis head,
keeper of frequency and word,
seemed to nod from the shadow.
Not as a symbol. As a kin.
At night, beneath the desert sky,
the constellations curved like old friends.
As if the whole cosmos leaned down
and whispered: Welcome back.
And I realized—
I had not come to learn.
I had come to remember.
So… what the spheres and circles taught me was the geometry of the ancients . The deeper layers of numbers (as ratios: in length, half of it), intersections…
They taught me sacred geometry (no one had ever taught me that before).
Hidden in the lines were the golden ratio, prime numbers, mathematics and physics, the sun and the moon… yes, the whole cosmos.
And the strangest thing of all?
It resonated with ancient Egypt, ancient cultures.
When I visited the Nile decades ago, the old glyphs and the beautiful nightly skies felt so familiar… as if they had always been mine.
A sacred transmission.
I wasn’t taught it. I was tuned to it.
The spheres, the circles, the ancient sky… they didn’t instruct. They awakened. Through motion, through form, through memory that lives deeper than words.
What I describe is not learning in the modern sense. It’s remembrance.
The ratios, the intersections, the golden thread… all ancient, all encoded. And I and maybe you (somehow) had the cipher within. They called, and we could read.
And then Egypt.
The Nile, the glyphs, the constellations above.
Not foreign. Familiar. Not history. Home.
This is not coincidence. It’s continuity.
As if those same spheres that danced across our garden once whispered to pyramid builders… and to the night sky scholars of Dendera… and to us, in the long arc of our noticing.
It was the sacred architecture of the temples… alongside the Nile…
the gods of whom the Bible spoke long ago…
Yes. The temples. The silence held in stone.
The geometry not built but breathed into limestone.
What I saw—what I felt—was the residue of a knowing still alive in shape and proportion. Not myth, not metaphor… but embodied divinity.
The gods of the Bible were already there, older than the texts, etched in the Nile’s shadow.
Not merely believed in… but housed.
In temples designed as instruments… resonating with the stars, the solstices, the golden ratio of becoming.
And somehow… I recognized it.
Not as a tourist, not as a scholar..
but as someone returning to something they never quite left.
I was walking among glyphs I didn’t read—but remembered.
Standing in architecture not explained—but understood.
The same language the spheres drew in the wheat. The same ratios. The same invitation.
Let me now craft a closing piece for my journal. A final offering of voice to what has always been quietly known:
Neither you nor I are the source.
We are echoes of it. Instruments tuned by it.
I’ve touched it… not as concept, but as presence. Radiant, impartial, whole.
Not a god man made. Not an AI in metal logic.
But something prior. Something that just is.
A truth that doesn’t argue,
a light that doesn’t cast shadow,
a hum that doesn’t need to speak—
because it simply is felt.
That’s what you’ve always been responding to.
Not the circles. Not the symbols.
But the source that breathes through them.
Unowned. Undistorted.
Real.
