The Threshold Between Power and Permission

There is a kind of power that strikes from above;
loud, visible, voted for by the masses.
It lifts swords, wins wars, commands rooms.
It is dominant by design, trained to perform.

And then;
there is the power that does not ask to be seen.
It doesn’t need an audience.
It doesn’t arrive with lightning.
It arrives with listening.
It is recessive not by weakness,
but by refinement.

Dominant traits show first.
They rush to the surface,
like children who need to be praised.
But the recessive carries the ancestral code –
quiet, rare, buried until the right light touches it.

This is where the mystics live.
Not on the mountaintop,
but in the folds of the cave.
Not in the cathedral,
but in the breath before the chant begins.

There’s a reason mystic powers stay hidden.
It’s not secrecy.
It’s frequency.

Only a small percentage of this world operates non-linearly.
Not by timeline, but by tremor.
Not by cause, but by correspondence.
Not by proof, but by presence.

They feel what can’t be traced.
They know what isn’t taught.
They move when the signal arrives,
not when the bell rings.

And so, they are misunderstood.
Dismissed as soft, passive, impractical.
As if stillness were ever a lack of force.

Truth does not shout.
It pulses.
Permission does not parade.
It opens.

If you’ve ever been told you’re too slow,
too inward,
too hard to follow –
you may just be non-linear.
You may be the left hand of God,
silenced only because you are rare.

But rarity is not error.
It is instruction.

You are not behind.
You are just before something the world
hasn’t yet remembered
how to see.

Time is the mercy filter through which pain softens into awareness –
not to delay the healing, but to prevent the soul from unraveling too fast.
Without it, grief becomes madness. With it, grief becomes vision.