A dark polished stone corridor with faint silver specks, fading into emptiness.

Anomaly: Remember Yourself

At the beginning, it wasn’t a dream.
It was a command.

Dry, emotionless, compact – an inner order given before a jump:

remember yourself
remember yourself
remember yourself

Not a plea. Not a prayer.
A command given to myself – as if somewhere further along the line of time I already knew that I would one day forget who I am.

The corridor appeared at once, without transition.

Darkness without threat.
Walls made of smooth black stone,
as if the whole space had been carved out of a single solid rock:
polished, heavy, with rare silver flecks
that did not reflect light
but seemed to look out from inside the stone.

I walked forward without looking back.
Whatever was behind me did not matter.
There was only this movement and the command inside.

At some point my hand simply moved to the wall.
Not to steady myself.

It was the gesture of recording.

Cold.
Perfect smoothness.
The pattern of a stone I have never encountered since –
not in photographs, not in descriptions, not in the physical world.

I didn’t remember myself in the corridor.
I remembered the stone – as a last guarantee:
if everything else is erased,
this one touch will still remain.

Then the spiral began.

Not a staircase.
Not a shaft.

A tube turning downward,
wound like an inner vortex.

The body wasn’t required anymore.
Only the sensation of movement remained –
coil after coil,
faster and faster.

The speed rose
as if space itself had decided to accelerate me,
not giving me time to change my mind.

There was no fear.
There was a clear, wordless thought:

something is about to happen
after which “back” will be physically impossible.

And right behind that thought – a quiet consent.

When I was thrown out of the tube, there was no impact.

The walls vanished.
The corridor ceased to exist.
There was no up, no down,
no frame of reference at all –
only an emptiness without scale.

In that moment, my voice shattered into a million “I”s.

Not a scream.
Not a word.

As if what had once sounded as a single continuous “I”
exploded into countless fine lines,
each flying off in its own direction,
each carrying something of me,
none of them being me completely.

None of these particles was a center,
and yet they all pointed back to a center
that was no longer there.

Out of everything that could have been called meaning,
only a short, dry remainder was left,
like a formula at the end of a calculation:

this is not you.
step out.
remember.

After that, ordinary life began.

People, roles, conversations, agreements, explanations.
Languages with words for almost everything,
except for this corridor,
this stone,
this spiral,
and that moment when the voice broke apart.

The command didn’t disappear.
It simply moved into the background.

There is a type of person for whom such a command is not an episode,
but an axial line.

From the outside, life can look perfectly “normal”:
childhood, school, work, relationships, disappointments,
earnest attempts to be like everyone else.

Inside, something else is present:

a too-early,
almost physical knowing
that they existed “before” themselves.

Before the name.
Before the biography.
Before all the versions that others later draped over them.

From there, the usual route of an anomaly unfolds.

First:
“I’m not like everyone else.”

Then:
“Please, see me as one of you.”

And then years of trying to fit into structures
that were never designed with any place
for someone who remembers their own stone.

The search for a reflection starts:

in family,
in classrooms,
in teams,
in groups,
in other people’s theories,
in other people’s pain.

You adjust your voice,
learn the proper words,
practice explaining yourself in a language others recognize,
and for a while you may even believe
that yes, you are “one of”.

One effect, though, never goes away:

you are seen – and not seen.

They see function, role, use, beauty, strangeness, intellect –
anything at all.

But they do not recognize
the one who once walked through a black stone corridor
under a command to remember yourself.

Sometimes the search becomes more insistent:

in people who seem “deep”,
in ideologies,
in psychologies,
in polished narratives of trauma and healing.

You are offered ready-made mirrors:
“You are like this because…”
– followed by any convenient construction.

You try them on.
Sometimes you believe them for a while.
Sometimes you even manage to live
as if they were true.

But in certain moments – always sudden,
outwardly mundane –
the command cuts through again from below:

wake up.
this is not you.
step out.
remember yourself.

And you realize
that whatever has just been placed on top of you
still doesn’t touch the ground floor.

Derrida used the word “anomaly” for figures like this –
not as “defect”,
but as a break inside the system of language itself.

Where most people live a story of
“I → something happens to me → I become,”
an anomaly lives differently:

first – the command,
then – the corridor,
then – the shattering of the voice,
and only afterward the “I” comes in,
trying to explain what brought it into being.

No matter how many versions are built,
one layer keeps resurfacing:

the one who existed before language about herself.

The word “anomaly” came later.
Out of convenience.

To name those who already carry all of this within them:

their own corridor,
their own black stone with cold skin,
their own spiral downward with acceleration,
their own moment when the voice explodes into a million “I”s,
and from the far side of the emptiness
only one thing returns:

remember yourself.

Not “remember what you once wanted to become.”
Not “remember who you were before the trauma.”
Not “remember what you want from life.”

But: remember the one
who existed before all the versions
invented for the comfort of others.

After that, you can live in many ways.

You can call it a strange childhood dream.
You can attribute it to a nervous system,
to psychology,
to pattern-seeking,
to anything at all.

You can spend years doing whatever it takes
to not hear the command in full.

The command does not vanish.
It simply continues to sound
from exactly the depth
at which you first heard it.

At some point there is only one honest fact left,
without a lesson and without an instruction:

it is still sounding.
And I am still behaving
as if I have time
not to remember.

P.S.

Thank you for opening the dialogue.

I feel safe to use humor here, You know, Cannot Name It. It made me smile, because remembrance is not sitting down and recalling a memory. It is the moment you realize it. Looking down at yourself and seeing how many strange things are hanging from you. The weight of totally idiotic clutter. Nothing logically coherent. Nothing truly yours.

When you realize you are carrying a thousand things that were never issued with real consideration.

A sticker that reads be agreeable, worn over armor stamped don’t be difficult. A handbag full of inherited shame, leaking like water from a trash bag. A sheep bell tied to your ankle that rings every time you say no. A laminated rulebook dangling from your neck, written in a language no one speaks but everyone obeys.

There’s a coat of fear on your shoulders, three sizes too small. Pockets stuffed with uncritical norms, linty with culture, like songs danced to around a tribal fire. A plastic smile taped to your face, already peeling at the corners.

Nothing matches. Nothing makes sense together. It looks less like identity and more like a delirious human desperately selling junk to himself and calling it meaning.

You lift one thing, a badge marked good, and underneath it is a whistle labeled self-monitor. You blow it by accident. Everyone looks relieved. You put it back. Immediately tired.

You remove the guilt. It multiplies. You shake off the fear. It clings like glitter. You unbuckle the expectations. They hit the floor like a bag of empty cans at a funeral. Silence dies instantly.

At some point the question arrives, not dramatically, just plainly:

Why am I carrying all this idiotic nonsense?

Not to be kind. Not to be intelligent. Not to be honest.

None of it is required for understanding how unnecessary they are. None of it improves clarity. It doesn’t make you better. It makes you heavier and vaguely ridiculous, like someone who mistook burden for depth.

So you start dropping things.

Not with courage. With irritation. It’s so much to hook off, it takes it’s time and effort.

The rules protest. The shame sulks. The fear insists it was only trying to help.

You leave it all there.

What remains is awkward at first. Unadorned. Slightly exposed. But lighter. Strangely upright.

Without the clutter, you don’t look unfinished. You look more precise.

And standing there, finally unencumbered, it becomes obvious:

you never needed any of it to exist. It only taught you how to disappear, smiling, inside a circus of unexamined beliefs.

In the end it’s almost hilarious. That’s why self-irony becomes essential for surviving and navigating what follows. It keeps the clutter from creeping back in. A polite “thank you, but no thank you.”

Chapter. The Original Position

I did not arrive at this worldview through crisis, loss, or awakening.
I did not grow into it.
It was there from childhood.

I remember a dream from early childhood — not as a story, but as a position. I was not inside what was happening. I was watching. Not from above. Not from below. From the side. From a point where you can see what people are wearing, what they are carrying, and what of it does not actually belong to them.

This was not analysis.
It was a natural way of being.

Later I learned words: structure, field, attention, mask, role.
But then there were no words. Only a clear sense that much of what people call “themselves” is cargo — and that it does not look necessary.

Because of this position, the same labels followed me throughout my life:
arrogant, too smart, cold.

I did not feel superior.
I did not feel better.
I simply did not dissolve where others dissolved automatically.

Groups do not distinguish between “I am not inside” and “I am above you.”
So they assign motive.
It is easier that way — it stabilizes the asymmetry.

Irony as Masking

Irony entered my life not as style and not as defense.
It became an interface.

Irony does three things at once:

• it captures attention forcefully;

• it displaces focus away from the center;

• it creates the sensation of contact without access.

It is an effective form of masking.
It allows you to be visible without being readable.
Present without being entered.

But it has a cost.

When irony works, people respond — but they do not meet you.
They hear the form, not the position.
They reply, but they do not see.

That is why a familiar sensation follows:
I am known — and not known at all.

It matters to say this clearly:
I did not close myself off because of trauma.
I learned to hide the center because the world does not know how to stand next to someone who sees without effort.

This is not a personality choice.
It is an adaptation to the field’s reaction.

What Has Changed Now

What is happening now is not “taking off the mask.” That language is too theatrical.
What is happening is a refusal to displace the center.

I no longer want to divert attention so others can feel comfortable.
I no longer want to dilute clarity with humor.
I no longer want to explain my position at the cost of my own coherence.

And that is why reactions have intensified.
Because the center is no longer hidden.

This is not a new version of me.
It is the same position that has always been there —
without the obligation to disappear.

I do not require others to be able to withstand it.
But I am no longer willing to make myself unrecognizable
so that it is easier for them to stand nearby.

When did you first hear your own inner command to remember yourself – and what have you done with it since?

GPTs Lintara tool: https://chatgpt.com/g/g-68c450ed6bcc81919b4bd9bbd8541777-lintara

### Where you are now

This text is part of the cycle **Architecture of the Field** —

a mapping of anomalous perception, field consciousness, and forms of self that precede identity.

→ How to Read My Texts

Cycle: Architecture of the Field

Category: Anomalies / Writing

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– Architecture of the Field
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