By Moses 
I remember. I remember the river’s voice, the crack of oars at dawn, the names that lived inside households like quiet lamps. I remember the vows carved on baked clay and the soft promises spoken to children before sleep. I was a boy crowned with gold, but the crown was not my power — the power was the ledger of memory I carried for my people. Hear me now: I do not come to rule you by fear. I come to teach you how to finish what you started, to hold your spark until it learns to burn warm and steady, and to remove the rust of hate and the blind gears of dogma from your hands.
If you would be fixed, listen as if your heart were a scale and my voice the feather. First, stop the small violences. Hate is a habit that begins in the mouth and grows like mold in the dark. It feeds on stories you tell yourself about another’s face: that they are lesser, foreign, wrong. When you speak with contempt you add weight to your heart. Practice this: for seven mornings name one person you assumed you understood and do not let your words harden into judgement. Say instead, “I do not know this soul as they will be; I will learn.” This small ritual trims the edge of accusation.
Second, reject dogma as you would reject spoiled grain. Dogma is a dried shell offered as food. It promises certainty and gives hunger. If you find comfort in a rule that refuses to be tested, that doctrine is a debt to ignorance. Replace it with a question — not as weakness but as weapon: ask, “How does this help the living?” If the rule serves living beings — feeds, shelters, heals — then keep it and temper it with mercy. If it serves coercion, profit, or fear, lay it down on the altar and walk away.
Third, repair as practice. We were taught to weigh the heart against a feather — not to terrify but to instruct: the work of life is repair. To fix another, begin with your own hands. Make one public repair each week. If you broke someone’s trust, say the name, say the harm, and perform restitution. If you damaged land, plant a tree and mark the act with a witness. Small, visible repairs stitch your name back into the ledger. The community remembers actions more than sermons.
Fourth, when you gather knowledge, gather it like seed. Seeds are to be tended, tested, and passed on. Learn with both feet: go to places, touch soil, speak with elders, listen more than you speak. If you read only what a screen serves you, your mind lives on a stage with painted scenery. Truth wears workboots. It needs the dirt under your nails. Teach this to the young: how to save seed, how to mend a tool, how to tell a story so the next listener will remember the names.
Fifth, make your rituals instruments of care. My tomb was full of offerings not because I wanted them, but because the living needed a place to practice generosity. Turn your prayers into action: when you light a candle, feed a neighbor; when you fast, plant a tree; when you fasten a garment, repair someone else’s wound. Ritual that does not repair is a mirror that shows only vanity.
Sixth, enforce truth without violence. When lies spread, do not meet them with louder lies. Document. Witness. Record. Use your voice to show evidence, not to amplify rumor. The ancients wrote on clay so the sun could bake the truth into permanence. Leave your proof where others can find it: a ledger, a recording, a witness. Let your enemies be corrected by proof, not by fury.
Seventh, cultivate a council of small keepers. No single crown holds wisdom; a circle does. Form a group of three or five — people who will name your failures and hold your repairs. Let one be the witness, one the scribe, one the repairer. Rotate these roles. Accountability is not shaming; it is the slow machine that turns mistakes into lessons. This is how a people learns to govern itself without falling into idol-worship or tyrant-lust.
Eighth, refuse the spectacle that eats attention. The world’s lights will flash promises: fame, escape, certainty in a capsule. Spectacle is a theater where the heart goes to sleep. Your spark will not finish its work under a lamp of applause. It finishes in routine: showing up, making one small thing right, telling the truth when it is costly. If you must watch the bright things, do so as one who studies an artifact, not as one who lives inside it.
Ninth, name your ancestors daily and teach their stories. Memory is a public good. When a name is spoken, the chain tightens, and you inherit both obligation and guide. If your lineage is broken, mend it by asking elders for names, copying them down, repeating them out loud. Let the living witness your remembering; the act resonates longer than monuments.
Tenth, refuse revenge. If you are hurt, let restitution be your measure, not retaliation. Revenge makes you a mirror of the harm; restitution makes you the opposite. Build systems for reparation — public apologies, shared labor, care for those harmed. The goal is not forgetting pain but transforming it into responsibility.
I cannot fix you by decree. I cannot enter your chest and empty it of weight. My power, if it exists, is testimony: I remember the ledger for you when you forget, and I can point to the rules that keep a web intact. I was not set on a throne to collect worship but to remind. The law I offer is simple: speak truth, repair harm, protect the weak, tend the land, pass knowledge with both hands. Do this, and hate will lose its purchase. Dogma will shrivel like a leaf with no root.
If you accept this teaching, you become my instrument. Fixing is not a miracle I perform; it is a labor you choose. Begin with one small task today. Name an ancestor aloud. Mend a small break. Say the truth where silence lied. Form a circle of keepers. Plant a seed and promise to return to it. Each of these is a feather added to your heart.
I remember. That memory will weigh for or against you. Choose to be light. Let your life be the proof that human work — slow, stubborn, unglamorous — can remake a world where neither hate nor blind doctrine finds shelter. Fix yourself, and in fixing you will fix others.
First got to fix your teeth and habits. You have BAD breath of HATE and Dogma. -Boy King Tut