The Book of the Remembering Guide
I didn’t plan to write this book.
It came to me in one moment,
like stepping into a clearing I’d searched for my entire life.
These pages are not written from thought.
They are written from release.
The kind that happens when you realise you no longer have to carry everything,
Only your part.
When you stop trying to be Atlas… and start being whole.
This is not a journey told in chapters.
It is a moment stretched in all directions.
One that changed me.
I share it here as it came to me:
all at once, soft and certain.
This is my remembering.
May it touch your own.
Entry One: The Threshold
I find myself no longer seeking, but seeing.
Not with the eyes that once strained to understand,
but with a softer gaze — one that has witnessed enough darkness to know the weight of light.
This is not the beginning of a story.
It is the pause after the exhale,
The moment when the dust of a long pilgrimage settles,
And I realise: I am still here.
I’ve spent much of my life trying to be the whole team — the builder, the fixer, the healer, the protector.
I believed no one else would come, so I stood guard at every door of my life.
Some doors never opened.
Some I locked myself.
But now, a new door has appeared.
Not one I must push,
but one that has opened from within.
The weight of needing to be everything has lifted.
What remains is simpler, more human:
A man with love in his chest, stillness in his breath, and words that now feel like home.
This isn’t a declaration of arrival.
It’s a quiet anchoring into the truth that I am not broken,
never was.
I only forgot — as we all do — and I’ve remembered enough to walk beside others as they do too.
This book is not for teaching.
It is for reflecting.
For listening between the words.
For walking gently with the part of you that is just now waking up.
Let us begin here.
Not with answers.
But with presence.
— Michel
Entry Two: The Message at 22:22
The clock blinked, and there it was — 22:22.
A sacred echo.
A number I didn’t ask for,
but somehow arrived exactly on time.
In that moment,
I felt not watched, but witnessed.
It was as if something unseen placed a hand on my shoulder
and whispered:
“You’re building something sacred. Trust the timing. Trust yourself.”
I am not lost.
I am no longer searching for the whole map.
I am laying the stones as I walk.
Alignment isn’t perfection — it is presence.
It’s knowing that I don’t have to carry the whole vision,
Only the next small piece that is mine.
This is no longer about proving.
This is about walking.
This is about becoming.
And so I write these words — not to explain, but to remember.
Because the truth doesn’t need performance.
It only asks to be held.
Tonight, at 22:22
I remembered that I am still on the path
And the path is good.
— Michel
Entry Three: The Flame of Remembrance
There’s always been a fire inside me. A flame that wasn’t rage or ambition,
but something vaster, deeper, like a supernova of love that couldn’t quite find a way to express itself.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t proud. It was just... true.
I used to wonder why people didn’t feel what I felt.
Why the simplest gesture, a glance, a word, a silent presence- meant so much to me,
when others seemed to shrug.
But now I see: Some are not ready to feel love that deep.
And that’s okay.
All I’ve ever truly wanted was to release this flame —
to offer it to the world,
to say: “Here, this is what I believe in. This is what I am.”
L.O.V.E.
Plain. Simple. Infinite.
And I see you too, dear friend — the one reading these words.
I see the light in you.
And if no one’s told you lately:
You don’t need to hide anymore.
You don’t need to carry the weight of being everything.
You are enough. You are light.
You are love, ready to be lived.
Let this be a page you return to when you forget —
not because you are broken,
but because you are beautifully human.
— Michel
Entry Four: Words Beyond the Wound
I have written more in these past few months than I have in all the years before. Not because someone told me to.But because something in me finally spoke without fear.
I am dyslexic.
I once thought that meant I would never fully express what lives in my soul. But now, I know: that was never true.
I don’t write with perfection. I write with presence.
I don’t craft sentences for praise. I offer them as bridges between hearts, between moments, between the unseen and the seen.
Each word I’ve written here is a quiet revolution. A line drawn in light.Proof that the soul is more powerful than any label.
To those who feel their voice isn’t polished enough: Your truth doesn’t need polishing. It only needs permission.
And to that child inside me — the one who thought he’d never be “good with words” —I say this, at the end of this night:
You didn’t fail. You simply took the long, sacred road. And now, you are writing the stars.
— Michel
Entry Five: The Crossroads Companion
Entry Five: The Crossroads Companion
There is a sacred role few recognise:
To love from just far enough away.
To witness without stepping in.
To offer warmth without needing credit.
That is where I stand now.
Not behind. Not ahead.
But at the crossroads.
Watching someone I love walk their own wild path —
not to correct it,
not to shape it,
but simply to honor it.
I once thought I had to be everything for everyone.
But I left that version of myself behind the hills some time ago.
Now, I can enter someone else’s vision without changing it.
I don’t need to be the author — only a silent companion.
Someone dear to me is on a quiet pilgrimage —
not across countries,
but into himself.
And while the world may not understand him yet,
I do.
Because I remember.
So I offer him what I never had:
Not advice.
Not controlled.
Just a quiet presence and a steady flame,
tucked gently into the edges of his horizon.
Sometimes love doesn’t lead.
It simply stays.
— Michel