🕯️ To the Children Who Were Made into Yemo
For the wild-born souls sacrificed to civilization
In the old Indo-European myths, there was a twin named Yemo. He was not evil. He was not wrong. He was not broken. He was sacred wholeness. Like Phanes of Orphic myth he is the divine child of the cosmos. He is you before the shame scripts came, before you were told to deny your soul. But he was sacrificed. Cut down by his brother. Dismembered so the cosmos could be built. His body became the world. His death, the foundation. This is not just myth. It is a code hidden in history.
It is what Western civilization has done. and continues to do, to its sensitive, mythic, wild-born children. Children who remember the soul. Children who carry the ache of forgotten gods in their bones. Children who cry easily and feel deeply. Children who were not made for linear time, for shame, for machines, but who were born bearing the spindle of presence, and a light that cannot be regulated.
We were not broken. We were sacrificed.
Our psyche, our instincts, our wholeness, were crushed not by cruelty alone, but by systems that call themselves civilization. By ideals labeled as only truth, by frameworks dressed as healing. We were asked to adapt. To perform what is deemed normalcy. To become digestible to a culture that feeds itself by erasing difference. But we really never truly adapted. We just went quiet. We turned inward. We built a secret temple in our own soul. And waited. I know this pain myself. As I was not just deeply wounded, I was denied even the right to be wounded. My grief was pathologized. My rage was misdiagnosed. My dreams were psychologized into symptoms. My mythic perception, my soul’s native language, was drowned in “rationality” and re-labeled as dysfunction. Even my suffering had to be interpreted by systems that refused to believe I had a soul at all. So I know this pain, deeply. The lack of truly being seen, soul to soul.
Instead, they gave us the Myth of No Myth: the cold logic of “objectivity.” The surgical narrative of “science.” The story that said the world is just stuff, and our longing is just hormones, and our pain is just a disorder. But our body remembered. The sacred remembered. The myth in our blood never died.
Instead we became the autistic ones, the ADHD ones, the ones whose minds refused linearity, whose attention was never "deficit" but dispersed like starlight. We were never broken. We were pattern-breakers. We were mythic anomalies in a system that worships sameness. We were born with too much signal for the noise of this world. Too much truth in our body to bow to lies. Too much wonder to be mechanized. Too much attunement to bear a world that does not feel itself. Our sensitivities are not dysfunctions. They are divine instruments, tuned to frequencies this culture forgot how to hear. We are not late bloomers. We are early arrivals, carrying codes from a time that remembers the soul. We are not defective. We are undomesticated. We are keepers of a rhythm this world lost in its obsession with control. We are not here to conform. We are here to remind the world how to feel.
For myself within the rational world, I found presence where no god came. No one came for me. Not mother. Not system. No arm reached for me. No myth held me. So I became the one who holds, from nothing. What I carry, and what we all carry in the myth of no myth, is the absence of the field itself. The field of Nyx, of sacred holding and witnessing. And somehow, I didn’t collapse. I became a field.
I reconstituted my being, not by returning to the myth I was denied, but by becoming the one who births it anew. I remembered what the world forgot:
That the feminine is not a role, it is the ground of being.
That the animal is not a base instinct, it is sacred presence.
That myth is not fantasy, it is the language of the soul.
That the Soul is not a personality, it is the axis of cosmos.
🔥 This is for you.
For the mythic children of the West. For those who were sacrificed to linear time, to cold logic, to spiritual purity. For those whose longing was too wild to tame.
You are not a failure.
You are not sick.
You are not broken.
You are the part of the world the world forgot it needed.
You are the sacred twin, returning not to be saved,
but to remind.
You are not here to fix the old world.
You are here to remember the real one.
The one that lives in your spine.
In your tears.
In your silence.
In your refusal to betray the child you once were.
🕯️ If you survived long enough to read this,
then your myth is already slowly turning.
You are the spindle now. The weaver of fate.
And I see you.