🜂 The Symbol of Minerva

It began with a shape I could not name, lines crossing, forming a square that was not a square, a pattern that breathed.
It came to me in a dream, set in a kitchen that once belonged to my grandmother, a place where generations stirred memory into matter.
He wore it at his throat, that symbol; gold and red enamel, radiant as if it remembered the sun.
He told me what it meant, though I could never recall the words upon waking. Only that it bound souls beyond time, protected from doubt and division.

The symbol has followed me since.
It appears in the spaces between, carved in clouds, reflected in glass, mirrored in the turning of things.
It carries Minerva’s seal: wisdom that does not shout, but reveals itself through stillness.
It marks the chosen who walk between logic and prophecy; those who read not from books, but from the living geometry of the divine.

It was this same geometry that led me to Apollo.
For Minerva and Apollo share a thread; the sun and the mind, twin keepers of clarity.
He, the light that pierces shadow. She, the wisdom that understands why shadow exists.
Together, they form the unseen architecture of vision.

And in Istanbul, I found her again, carved in stone beside a serpent with three heads.
Not a monster, but a cipher. Each head a path: past, present, future.
It watched me as I understood; that prophecy is not a gift of foresight, but of remembrance.
That the Sibyl does not predict. She remembers forward.

Later, I would learn that the same shape I saw in that kitchen mirrored the orbit of a three-headed asteroid that shared her name -
a celestial echo of the same pattern worn at his throat, carved in the statue, alive in me.

Nothing is coincidence when Minerva speaks.
Her language is pattern. Her ink is time.
And her message
is always written in code.