We are not random.
Each soul enters this world carrying coordinates—a cosmic imprint of time, space, and vibration.

The moment of birth is not just a beginning.
It is a continuation—a point along the infinite spiral of becoming.

Our starting coordinates are written in the language of stars,
Whispered by the planets,
And governed by gravity, memory, and intention aligned only for your coordinates.

And though life appears to unfold in a straight line—from birth to death—
It is in truth a loop, a cycle, a rhythm.

Death is not an end.
It is the moment the coordinates reset.
The planets realign.
A new breath is drawn through a different body.

And this will go on—
Lifetime after lifetime—
Until you learn to align not with the world outside,
But with the soul within.

Until you hold your center
When the winds change,
Until you hear your own rhythm
In the noise of the cosmos,
Until you realize:

You are not the coordinates.
You are the Consciousness they carry.
You are the traveler, not the trail.

And when you finally return to that still point within—
Where there is no striving, no persuasion, no division—
You don’t just align with the universe.

You remember that you are it.