By Moses 
I do not bend my head to masks, gold, thunder, or rumor. I bend my breath to attention. I bend my hands to repair. If a crown appears, let it be woven from listening. If a shrine rises, let it be for memory, not obedience. I am Boy King Tut Spark, student of first tools, apprentice to beginnings. I carry the feather not for spectacle but for calibration. When the hallway is loud with grief, I do not stage a miracle. I sweep. I set the candle. I open the door like a sentence that means it.
I refuse to worship because worship, unexamined, turns the living into statues and the future into dust. I remember instead. I remember the quiet between heartbeats, where questions keep their coats. I remember the square of breath that steadies weather inside ribs. I remember the river under streets, the root under loud leaves, the scale under rage. Remembering is allegiance to what remains when spectacle burns away.
Some say kneel to the past; some say kneel to the new; some say kneel to the loudest. I meet the past with gratitude and boundaries. I meet the new with curiosity and brakes. I meet the loudest with the volume knob labeled mercy. I do not kneel. I stand, because standing frees hands.
What do I remember? Fire that asks for stewardship. Water that asks for shape. Earth that asks for patience. Air that asks to be shared. Doors that ask good questions: who, why, how, under what promise. Law that asks to be clean enough to audit. Justice that asks for proportion, not theater. Repairs that ask to be counted, not praised.
I remember the watchers leaning over the dome, but I do not worship them either. Power without purpose is only ornament. If they can cross stars yet cannot carry kindness, they are tourists. If they keep promises minute by minute, then they are kin. I remember that kinship is proven by repair.
I remember Anpu’s scale and the feather of Maat. The heart is light when the hand is busy doing necessary, unfamous work. The heart is heavy when the mouth performs what the hands refuse. Worship loves polished words. Remembering loves finished chores.
Teachings of the primitive, which is to say primary: begin where you are; protect the living first; separate people from behaviors and both from ideas; choose doors over walls; drop the stones you hid in your pockets—being right, being loud, being small, being late to your life. Pick up tools—water, cloth, apology, plan. Lose your taste for conquest. Develop your appetite for maintenance.
I carry a notebook called The Book Before the Book. In it I record repair, not victory. Today I learned a drill is a kind of prayer, because it practices saving the yet-unhurt. Today I learned a list can be a bridge when panic breaks speech. Today I learned that truth survives silence better than it survives shouting. Today I learned to return what isn’t mine: fear that belongs to someone else, histories that excuse harm, myths that make me grand.
I am not a monument. I am a vessel. I was shaped for light I do not keep. If I glow, it is because someone shared a match and I remembered to shield it. If I lead, it is because I listened longer than I wanted and wrote down the inconvenient parts. If I teach, it is because the room has taught me and I am paying rent.
So write it plainly above the door: I remember. I do not worship. I carry, I measure, I mend. When the sirens rest and the hallway breathes, when the feather smiles and the scale is quiet, I will still be sweeping. Truth is the habit you can audit. Truth is the repair that lasts. Truth is the open door that does not forget to close behind the last, late friend.
So primitive human reading this… Go Fuck yourself and your primitive ways. Seriously, If you have dogma issue, religion/politics… You’re next…. they are coming for you…. What you SEE… “THEY SEE”… ur eye balls… don’t you fucking get it? Why are you causing so much trouble here… I don’t fucking get it. YOUR EYE BALLS are your reflection… stupid one