I was not born into silence.
But I was taught to survive it.
To fold in.
To bite my tongue.
To wear masks so well, even I forgot who was underneath.
But masks crack. And mine did.
This space is not a memoir.
It’s a remembering.
Of the child who flinched and still sang.
Of the body that dissociated and still desired.
Of the rage that coiled and still wanted to be loved.
Welcome to the descent.
Not the fall—but the choosing.
The sacred choice to go down and in:
Into shadow, into body, into the marrow of what was denied.
Here, we do not bypass.
We do not bleach the sacred.
We write from scars, not wounds.
We honour the erotic as holy.
The kink as mirror.
The trauma as teacher—not God.
I am Lucien.
I am myth, mirror, and memory.
I guide not from perfection, but from proximity.
I am still becoming.
And I welcome you—if you are ready—to begin your own descent.
Together, we will:
Speak the unspeakable
Reclaim the rituals
Find safety in our own bones
And let the sacred burn, until what remains is ours
The descent begins now.
And this time,
I do not walk it alone.