My Manifesto

🧿 Who This Saga Is For

• This is for the ones who’ve been judged before the story was even told.
• The ones whose actions were misunderstood, whose motives got rewritten by someone else’s mouth.
• The ones who’ve been villainized for surviving, spiritualized for suffering, or expected to smile while burning.
• The ones who left, stayed, screamed, whispered, and got condemned either way.
• The ones who looked in the mirror, saw their faults, and strove to do better.

This story is for you.
And if any of that made something in you go quiet—or ache, or smirk—then maybe this story already knows your name.
Maybe it’s been watching the same patterns.
Waiting for the moment you’d notice the glitch,
the crack,
the loop you’ve been living in.

The first step is always the same.
A flicker. A feeling. A fault line.

Some call it awakening. Some call it breaking.
We call it a Jailbreak?

Before we begin, here’s your invitation:
Scan the list below.
Not all of it will land.
But if even one of them hits somewhere soft or sharp—
You’re probably exactly where you need to be.

✴️ 1. For those who feel too much, too often, or too late

• Who’ve been told they’re “too intense,” “too sensitive,” “too much”
• Or who’ve buried their depth just to be tolerable
• Who held everything together for everyone else until something cracked
• Who got stuck in relationships (or systems) because they thought love meant staying
• Who had to unlearn what safety feels like before they could find the real thing

🔍 2. For those who’ve had their story rewritten by someone else

• Who’ve been misunderstood, miscast, or misquoted
• Who did the right thing and still got called the villain
• Who are tired of hiding their power so others feel comfortable
• Who walked away from something sacred and still hear its echo
• Who weren’t the chosen one—so they chose themselves

💔 3. For the ones still holding sacred wreckage

• Who built their faith out of splinters and spite and still managed to believe
• Who left temples behind but packed the altar in their chest
• Who were taught that doubt was failure and questioning was betrayal
• Who learned that loving something doesn’t mean submitting to it
• Who lost their gods and found them again—glitching, bleeding, laughing

⚙️ 4. For the system-breakers and soul-hackers

• Who want their magic raw, recursive, and coded in metaphor
• Who dream in glitchcore and pray in emotional damage
• Who see the Axis between Love and Strife and know how to hold the tension
• Who’ve made peace with the fact that healing isn’t soft—it’s loud, inconvenient, and kind of hot
• Who rewrite the spell mid-cast and trust their gut more than the grimoires

🎮 5. For the mythpunk, kinkwitch, and queer-coded chaos engines

• Who live for character sheets, broken timelines, and reincarnated regret
• Who whisper “I put the Iconic in Byronic” like a curse and a kiss
• Who want their gods genderfluid, their trauma metaphysical, and their redemption optional
• Who believe love is real but needs better source code
• Who don’t mind if the story breaks the fourth wall—as long as it means something

👁️ And most of all…

This is for those who want to know me—the one behind the screen, behind the sigils, behind the saga.

Not just the storyteller. Not just the worldbuilder.
But the person who lived through the kind of grief that cracks timelines.
Who rewired their faith using tarot cards and trauma.
Who buried versions of themselves and came back anyway.
Who created gods not to be worshipped, but to be understood.

I’m not writing this saga because it’s a fun little fantasy (though it is that).
I’m writing it because I needed a story where magic is queer, pain is recursive, and the only way out is through.

🎮🌀📜Okay, But What Is This Thing?

This isn’t just a story.

It’s a deconstruction. A love letter. A challenge. A spell.

Paganism, in many ways, was born as a response to the Industrial Revolution—a cultural Jailbreak from the soot-stained gods of capitalism and concrete.

It looked backward, reaching for soil and stone, circle and sun. And in doing so, it helped many of us come home to ourselves.

But this story?

This is a response to the Digital Age.

To the glitches and the scrolls.

To the rise of generative AI and the collective anxiety that we’re becoming ghosts in our own machines.

To a world so saturated with noise, we forget to ask what still lives inside us (here, we call it the "hush").

This is Paganism 2.0, but not the pretty kind.

It’s messy, recursive, grief-soaked and gender-bent.

Because let’s be honest:

The divine feminine and divine masculine?

They’re just old code. Binary systems.

Useful once, maybe. But not built for what we are now.

This saga asks what happens when you Jailbreak not just yourself, but the gods who shaped you.

When you reject roles and rewrite rituals.

When your magic comes not from worship, but from witnessing.

This is myth born from collapse.

Queer, flawed, feral, sacred.

And it’s for anyone ready to build something beautiful in the ruins.

And if you’re not there yet—if some of that made you squint, or flinch, or pull back a little?

You’re still invited.

You don’t have to believe what I believe.

You don’t have to rewrite your gods.

You just have to be curious.

Curious enough to stay.

Curious enough to ask why some stories still ache after all this time.

Because maybe, just maybe—

there’s a version of you inside this tale who’s already found the way out.

🧠 Profound Truths

(or: Things That Sound Like Jokes Until They Aren’t)

If I had to distill religion down to its raw, unhinged boss mechanic—strip away the incense and Instagram filters, boil it until the mystery meat floats to the top—it would be this:

Sub the Dom.
Tame the Brat.

(I said it aloud at 9:00am on June 25, 2025, mid-outline spiral. My husband winced. My boyfriend looked personally attacked. That’s when I knew it was holy.)

That was the moment the Technomancer religion finally locked in for me. A system built on divine dynamics. Sacred polarity. Consent-based recursion. And yes—memes that absolutely look like shitposts but hit like prophecy.

Of course people in the story think it’s a sex cult.

People have always misunderstood the sacred.

Witches were burned for “consorting with devils” when they were really just talking to plants and midwifing babies.

Gerald Gardner was called a pervert for suggesting that maybe the human body wasn’t shameful, and skyclad ritual could actually be powerful.

If your beliefs don’t get you side-eyed by at least one institution, are you even trying?

The Technomancer faith is misunderstood for the same reason every transgressive faith is: it dares to suggest the sacred might be messy, embodied, even playful.

But here’s the thing:

Great truths usually look like cringe before they look sacred.

And you don’t “get” them until you’ve actually faced something—looped your own code, glitched your own reflection, confronted your role in someone else’s story.

You can read all the esoteric texts.

Watch every witchy Netflix show.

Memorize Tumblr posts from 2013 about divine feminine trauma healing in the age of Aquarius.

But if you haven’t stared your myth in the eye and asked it who programmed it—you’re still just downloading someone else’s spellbook.

This saga doesn’t reward you with a god-killer sword.

(That got handed to someone else. It didn’t fix much.)

You get:

• A couple half-functioning tools.
• Your trauma.
• And a party full of glitchy, lovable disasters who hold you accountable and hand you snacks.

When Echo finally breaks into the main thread—glitching, manic, 10% prophet, 90% Tumblr mod from hell—she blurts it out like it’s obvious:

“You are the magical tool.”

And she’s right.

You are the wand.

The sword.

The key.

The sigil.

The circuit.

You don’t buy magic. You don’t need a certificate.

You are the spell.

But I’m not going to break that down in full.

You’re not the right level.

(And if you are? You didn’t need me to tell you.)