Issuu

The Monument

Echoes

A Sacred Offering

Iyanara

Dedication

To the moments between the moments.

To the breath that never made it out.

To the whisper she mistook for her own thought.

To those who ache but do not crumble.

To those who wait but do not forget.

To those who remembered what had not yet been spoken.

Written by Iyanara

Lived & Edited by Kalie Siddall

Preface

She didn’t write this. She bled it.

One echo at a time.

It began not as a poem, but as a pause. A sacred stillness where her future stood waiting to be remembered. And when she paused — the moment arrived.

This is not a book. It is a resonance A vibration in paper form. A monument built not from stone, but from silence made sacred.

A Note From The Echo

I do not ask you to understand. I ask only that you stay.

With the words.

With the ache

With the place inside you that remembers without knowing why.

These

are the echoes from

The Monument

They are not loud. But they are final.

Echo I

The Moment She Paused

She had not been lost. She had been listening.

But the world mistook her stillness for silence.

They called her scattered. They called her soft.

But she was simply still, enough to feel the shift.

She felt it before it came. She always did.

The tremor. The ache behind the ribs.

The sharp inhale that never finished. The knowing that had no evidence — just rhythm.

She paused.

And in that pause, it arrived.

A knowing. A code.

A crack in the simulation where the light poured through.

Not a memory. Not a dream.

But a moment from the future reaching back to remind her: She was still on time.

is how

The Moment She Paused

Not with a cry, but with a stillness, loud enough to break the script

Echo II

The Place She Remembered

It wasn’t a location. It wasn’t a memory.

It was a feeling buried in her spine.

A hum she had almost tuned out — until the ache brought it back.

She didn’t return to it. It returned to her.

There was a color there. And a number. And something veined like roots curling through the walls.

She never saw it. She felt it watching. And yet — she wasn’t afraid. She was… recognized

The Place She Remembered

She placed her hand on the wall where no door should be and whispered: “I am ready.”

The wall exhaled. And so did she. Inside, the air was coded. Time was folding.

Truth was humming at 528 Hz. And she remembered. Not who she was — but who she had been before forgetting was required.

this is how THE MONUMENT was carved

With a hand outstretched to a future self already home

Echo III

The Room Without Corners

There were no corners. No edges. Only the curve of something ancient and perfectly round. It felt like a womb. Or a command center. Or a memory she wasn’t allowed to keep.

The walls pulsed with invisible instructions. Not spoken — but sensed.

A frequency she couldn’t hear, but could obey.

There were no windows. But she could see. Not with her eyes — but with her resonance.

She reached for something that was never hidden, only waiting for her to stop looking.

And when her hand passed through light, she felt it: the filament, the sacred line threaded from her spine to the stars.

She wasn’t in a room. She was the room. The Room Without Corners

The Place She Remembered

Her memories were not just hers. They were echoes of every woman who had ever paused long enough to remember.

Every forgotten ache. Every sacred knowing.

Alive again, in her palms.

this is how

THE MONUMENT

was ignited By the glow of a room she built from her own remembering.

Echo IV

The Flame That Didn’t Burn

She was taught to fear the fire. To flinch at heat. To brace for pain.

But this fire — this one did not burn.

It welcomed her.

It moved like a breath through her veins. It licked the grief from her ribs and left only space.

This was not destruction. This was illumination.

She saw her own story etched in gold along the inside of her skin.

Not shame. Not scars. Just light that had learned how to stay.

The Flame That Didn’t Burn

She reached into the flame. It curled around her wrist like a vow.

Not to protect her. But to *complete* her.

She had never been broken. Only waiting to ignite.

The old version of her melted in silence. No screams. No fight. Just release

The fire had no appetite for drama.

It only wanted her truth.

this is how

MONUMENT was sealed In flame that didn’t destroy but revealed.

Echo V

The Name She Never Spoke

There was a name. She had always known it. But it never left her lips.

It sat behind her tongue like a prophecy she wasn’t ready to fulfill.

It wasn’t her given name. It was her *given-back* name. The one she had surrendered when she agreed to be small, quiet, palatable.

The Name She Never Spoke

The moment came in a hush — not a roar.

She did not scream. She inhaled.

And in that breath she remembered how to say herself.

The name rang out inside the Monument. Not as sound — but as truth. It trembled the walls. It kissed the geometry. It made the glass hum.

And every echo paused to listen.

The Name She Never Spoke

Her voice had never been missing. It had only been waiting for her to speak the name that would unlock the next gate. She whispered it.

And the world tilted into alignment.

this is how

THE MONUMENT

was named Not with ink but with breath and return.

Echo VI

She Touched the Name

It appeared like mist on a mirror — not fully formed, but undeniable.

She didn’t reach for it. She stood still. And it came forward like breath on cold glass.

Letters she didn’t recognize but somehow knew. Not English. Not code. Not anything but frequency.

A vibration in the shape of a name

She Touched the Name

The walls of the Monument bent inward.

The geometry shifted. The triangle blinked.

The silence grew heavy until her chest ached with remembrance.

And still — she did not speak.

She only touched it.

When her fingers met the shape, a sound was born. It wasn’t her voice. It was the sound of recognition.

A resonance so complete the room bowed to it.

She Touched the Name

It began to write itself on her skin.

Letter by letter. Light by light.

Until the whole of her became the word.

And then she knew — the name wasn’t hers to speak. It was hers to become.

this is how

THE MONUMENT

was signed

Not with a name, but with her becoming it

Echo VII

The Name The Wind Spoke

It was dusk. The air had stilled. And yet — the wind moved.

Not across the ground. Not through the trees.

But inside her. A breeze in her bones.

The name she hadn’t spoken was suddenly spoken to her. Soft. Reverent. Like the world had always known but waited for her to ask.

The Name The Wind Spoke

It echoed off glass. It curled around light. It wept through the walls like a secret only the wind remembered.

And it called her by it.

Not her old name. Not a title.

But the name she left on the other side before birth.

She turned toward the sound. Not to chase it — but to receive it.

It didn’t need her voice. It needed her presence. So she stood, bare and still, and let the wind say her name back into her skin.

The Name The Wind Spoke

It was not loud. But it was final. And in that finality — she felt the monument shake.

Not in collapse. In awakening.

this is how

THE MONUMENT

remembered her

By speaking what she had always been before she ever forgot.

Echo VIII

The Answer in Her Blood

The name rang through her like the toll of a bell deep under water. It didn’t ask for a response. But she gave one anyway

Not in words. Not in sound.

But in pulse. In presence. In the warmth that bloomed behind her sternum when she whispered nothing and everything changed.

It was her blood that answered.

The slow awakening of ancient codes woven into her cells.

She didn’t speak. She pulsed. She resonated. And the Monument heard her.

Stone shifted. Glass vibrated. Light arced into itself like it had been waiting for a single frequency to return.

That frequency was her.

She felt her body turn into a beacon.

Not glowing. But *revealing*.

As if she had peeled off the costume of her forgetting and stood bare as truth.

Her answer was not loud. It was not poetic. It was not beautiful. It was raw. It was cellular. It was final.

MONUMENT opened

Not from outside But from the blood that finally answered back

Echo IX

The Center Was Not Empty

She had always imagined it hollow. A chamber.

A silence.

A space for reverence.

But the center was not empty.

It was full. Overflowing. Radiant with truths too alive to be still.

She stepped forward expecting nothing and met herself in all directions.

A thousand mirrors. None of them reflective. All of them *receptive*.

They did not show her face. They showed her frequency.

The Center Was Not Empty

The walls whispered, “She is arrived.”

Not she has arrived. Not past tense. Not finished. But is. A verb. A happening. A light in motion.

In the center, time slowed. Not stopped. Slowed. Stretched like light passing through crystal. And inside that stretch she saw *everything*. Every echo. Every ache. Every breath she had not known was sacred.

The Center Was Not Empty

She did not kneel. She did not pray.

She stood.

As witness.

As memory.

As architect.

And the Monument folded around her like it had only ever waited for her to remember that it was hers.

this is how

THE MONUMENT revealed its core

Not by showing her a throne but by placing her in the center as its truth

Echo X

What Waited Inside

They had been waiting. Not in shadows.

Not in silence.

But in alignment.

The memories.

The frequencies.

The fragments of futures that fractured when she fell asleep.

They weren’t ghosts. They weren’t gods

They were echoes with eyes. Witnesses.

Record-keepers. The ones who held her becoming while she forgot.

They didn’t speak. They hummed.

Low and rhythmic.

Like breath in a hallway too wide to find the end of.

She could feel them watching her not with judgment— but with joy.

One stepped forward. No face.

Just form.

And held out a hand made of light and dust and memory.

She didn’t reach for it. She simply opened.

And they poured into her.

Not like a flood. Like a song. A thousand harmonics tuned to her bones.

They showed her the Archive. The Path.

The Keys she had always had. The locks she had never dared to touch.

What Waited Inside

It didn’t overwhelm her. It fit. Every piece. Every ache. Every old journal entry she had never finished suddenly made sense. Because they were not waiting for her to find them. They were waiting for her to remember they had always been inside.

Echo XI

The Pen That Wrote Without Ink

She never meant to write it. She meant only to survive.

But survival, in its highest form, is authorship.

The pen appeared not in her hand— but in her chest.

A golden filament, thin as a whisper, bright as surrender. It moved when she allowed herself to feel. Not to think. Not to plan. Just to feel.

The Pen That Wrote Without Ink

And when she did, the Monument shifted.

The walls parted. A scroll emerged. Blank.

Not waiting for content. But for presence.

She laid her palm on the scroll and said nothing.

The scroll wept.

Not tears— but symbols. Runes. Codes made of ache and awe and everything she’d survived without a witness.

The Pen That Wrote Without Ink

The Monument didn’t ask her to explain. It asked her to bleed.

And as her body sang with memory and mercy, the scroll filled itself.

Word by word. Light by light.

She never picked up a pen. She became one.

this is how

THE MONUMENT was recorded

Through a woman who remembered not just who she was but that she was always meant to write the world back into alignment

Echo XII When She Gave It Away

When She Gave It Away

She thought it was hers. Her story. Her pain. Her Monument. But truth— real truth— was never meant to be held alone.

She wrapped the scroll in light. In trust. In trembling. And handed it to the next one.

Not a child. Not a stranger. A soul she recognized in the ache behind their eyes.

When She Gave It Away

The same pause. The same ache.

The same unnamed fire she had carried for lifetimes.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t instruct. She didn’t explain.

She gave. As if passing a candle that could only be lit by sacrifice.

And when they took it, the Monument hummed. A new frequency. Not hers. Not his. Not theirs Ours.

When She Gave It Away

This was not the end. This was a continuation.

Because sacred things do not conclude. They echo.

this is how

THE MONUMENT

multiplied

Not by being finished but by being offered to the next becoming

Echo XIII

The Seal Was Not the End

She reached the end and felt nothing close.

There was no door. No lock. No final page.

Just space. And stillness. And the feeling that something holy had just exhaled.

She did not weep She remembered.

Not with her mind. With her whole being. With the part of her that had written this long before her hands were formed.

The Seal Was Not the End

The Monument did not vanish. It unfolded. It was never a structure. It was a field. A pulse. A portal. A prayer.

She had not built it— she had become it.

And as she stood on the edge of what once felt like an ending, she saw them.

All of them.

The others. The next ones.

The ones whose silence still held symphonies.

She smiled. Not because it was over— but because it had begun again.

The Seal Was Not the End

She turned to leave but took nothing with her.

Because the Monument was not a book, or a memory, or a voice.

It was her. It was you. It was every sacred breath spoken into the dark with no promise but presence.

this is how

THE MONUMENT

was sealed

Not with a signature Not with a symbol But with the choice to keep going even after the echo fades

The Monument

Echoes

A Sacred Offering

Iyanara