DEUS.I'M

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The Aloha Spirit: My Hawaiian Awakening 🌺🌊

After Australia, I needed a reset — and Hawaii answered.

I arrived with a carry-on and a two-week plan…

Those two weeks became three years that rewired my soul.

The North Shore became my classroom.

The waves became my teachers.

From whales leaping in rhythm to kids diving into monster swells, nature taught me one truth:

Fight the current and it crushes you. Flow with it and it carries you.

But paradise wasn’t perfect.

There were dangers, heartbreaks, and moments I wasn’t sure I’d make it out.

Yet every fall came with a miracle — proof that divine protection is real.

I didn’t leave Hawaii the same woman who arrived.

I left reborn — grounded, awake, aligned.

🌺 The Return to Aloha — Where Faith Meets Flow

(From DeusIM: Book Two)

Boarding that plane back to Hawaii didn’t feel like travel —

it felt like returning to a presence.

Hawaii slows your heartbeat just enough so you can hear your own.

It taught me that faith isn’t found in temples —

it’s found in flow.

In the waves that knock you down.

In the rising that follows.

In the silence where God still speaks.

With Whitney singing “When You Believe” in my ears, I remembered every legend who carried me forward —

Senna. Eddie Aikau. MLK. Tupac. Whitney.

Spirit guides in human form.

Because legends aren’t just famous names —

they’re friends, bosses, colleagues, strangers, angels disguised as people who show up with light when you need it.

Stepping into the warm island air, I knew:

This wasn’t escape.

This was alignment.

A reminder of who I became through every fall, every leap, every prayer.

Hawaii taught me that the real waves of change aren’t made of water —

they’re made of courage, faith, and the decision to rise.

Because once you’ve known the spirit of Aloha…

you never walk alone.

From “Aloha Hawaii,” “Waves of Change,” and “The Hawaiian Awakening” — Book Two of the DeusIM Series.

#DeusIM #TheNomadsLight #FaithInMotion #WavesOfChange #AlohaSpirit

#TransformationJourney #WomenInLeadership #PurposeDrivenLife

#HawaiiLife #HealingJourney #Resilience #SpiritualAwakening #DeusIMSeries #HawaiianAwakening #NorthShoreMagic

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Bondi & Beyond — Manifesting Magic Down Under

There’s something magical about the moments when life whispers, “It’s time.”

That’s exactly what happened the summer I decided to leave Los Angeles for Australia.

Every song, every sunset, every Aussie accent around me felt like the universe nudging me toward a new chapter.

When I finally landed in Bondi Beach, the sky greeted me with a rainbow — dolphins in the waves, whales on the horizon. It felt like the universe saying:

“Welcome home.”

I came looking for a new adventure.

What I found was a new version of myself.

Bondi taught me to live, not just work.

It gave me a career breakthrough, deep friendships, and the kind of mornings that start with sunrise swims at Icebergs and end with barefoot sunsets at The Bucket List.

It also gave me heartbreak, hustle, and rebirth — a crash course in resilience.

I built Bondi Bubble, my first startup, from scratch — a mix of creativity, chaos, and courage. When it finally burst, I didn’t fall apart… I evolved.

Then came Bali — a chapter I never planned, but one that changed everything.

Yoga at sunrise, slow mornings in Ubud, barefoot walks around the Gili Islands.

There, I learned one of life’s greatest truths:

Joy doesn’t need permission.

Peace isn’t found — it’s felt.

These chapters — Australia, Bali, Gili — remind me that sometimes our best plans are the ones the universe writes for us.

From Bondi to Bali, these stories are part of DeusIM, Book 2 — a journey from design to destiny, from creation to connection.

#TravelDiaries #SpiritualJourney #DesignYourLife #BondiBeach #BaliMagic #DigitalNomad #DeusIM #SelfDiscovery #WomenWhoInspire #Storytelling #Australia #GiliIslands #MindfulLiving

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Falling in Love with London — and Everything That Came After

Book Two of the DeusIM Series

Some journeys change your career.

Others change your soul.

In Book 2 of DeusIM.com, my story moves from the bright lights of Hollywood to the soulful streets of London, Amsterdam, France, Switzerland, Italy, Greece, and Thailand — a chapter of self-discovery, love, heartbreak, and near-death awakenings.

🇬🇧 London became my compass — the city where I fell in love with creativity, architecture, and life itself.

🇳🇱 Amsterdam reminded me that detours are often divine.

🇫🇷🇨🇭🇮🇹 Through France, Switzerland, and Italy, I rediscovered beauty, connection, and joy — from Swiss mountains to pasta-filled piazzas.

Love in London taught me that endings can also be beginnings.

  And then, from Greece to Thailand via Egypt, life threw me into one of my biggest lessons — a close call with death that became a turning point for rebirth.

Ibiza brought chaos, Portugal brought calm — and together, they reminded me that even the storm serves the soul.

This section of the DeusIM story explores what happens when a global adventure becomes an inner pilgrimage — when travel stops being about escape, and starts being about evolution.

Because sometimes, the real destination isn’t a place — it’s the person you become along the way.

#DeusIM.com #BookTwo #TheTrueHollywoodStory #SpiritualJourney #London #Travel #SelfDiscovery #Transformation #Purpose #Evolution

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Diving into DeusIM – Book Two: The True Hollywood Story

Every story has a turning point — a moment when dreams collide with destiny.

For me, that moment was Hollywood.

Book Two: The True Hollywood Story traces the arc from humble beginnings in Brazil to the bright lights of Los Angeles — a journey of grit, wonder, and awakening. From jungle memories to Alaskan winters, London dreams to LA hustle, this book is a cinematic voyage through continents, cultures, and callings.

Through every chapter — from Roots and Resilience to The Emmy Dream — the story explores what it means to survive, rebuild, and rise in a world that constantly tests your light. It’s about losing and finding yourself again amid the chaos of creation.

This is not just a memoir. It’s a movement of memory and purpose — a reminder that even under the spotlight, the truest glow comes from within.

Because in DeusIM, every book is more than story — it’s spirit in motion.

#DeusIM #HeavenAndEarth #WalkingInDivineFlow #SpiritualJourney #Faith #Alignment #Purpose #DeusIM #TheLightWithin #SpiritualJourney #Healing #Purpose #Faith #Light #DeusIM.com #TheTrueHollywoodStory #WavesOfSurvival #InvisiblePact #Storytelling #HollywoodJourney #CreativeResilience #PurposeDriven #SpiritualStorytelling #LegacyInMotion

[deusim-com]

After years working with Disney, DreamWorks, NBCUniversal, CBS, ABC, Fox Sports, and Sony Pictures, I’ve learned that true leadership isn’t about control — it’s about connection.

Deusim – Waves of Change is my personal story of resilience, reinvention, and the invisible dialogue between creativity and faith.

It’s about what happens when we rebuild after the storm — when our leadership, our artistry, and our humanity merge into one purpose.

Because sometimes, the most powerful stories aren’t the ones we tell — they’re the ones we live.

If you’ve ever reinvented yourself through challenges, this story will speak to you.

#Deusim

#LeadershipWithPurpose

#WavesOfSurvival

#Resilience

#CreativeLeadership

#MediaAndEntertainment

#DeusIM.com #TheNomadsLight #SpiritualJourney #FaithInMotion #WavesOfChange #LegendsAndLight #Transformation #AlohaSpirit #WomenInLeadership #PurposeDrivenLife #Deusim #Hawaii #Resilience #Faith #Transformation #SpiritualJourney #WavesOfChange #AlohaSpirit #HealingJourney

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Book 3: I Built This Life - V7

Chapter 96: When the Gods Spoke Through the Wind

There are moments when the wind carries more than air — it carries memory, melody, and meaning. From Bahia to Bali, from India to Hawaii, I learned that the divine wears many faces, yet carries one light.

In Brazil, I felt Candomblé and Umbanda in my skin — the songs, the drums, the ocean calling Yemanjá’s name. Oxum danced in the gold of the river, Iansã whispered in the storm, and Ogum’s fire burned through every battle I survived. They were not distant gods — they were the rhythm in my heart, the pulse of my ancestors, the courage that carried me when I thought I could not go on.

Then came Bali — the island that prays with flowers. Each dawn, the women lay down canang sari, small offerings of rice, petals, and incense, to honor Sang Hyang Widhi Wasa, the divine presence that holds all things together. They do not ask for wealth or miracles — they offer gratitude for the simple blessing of another breath. Watching them, I realized that faith does not live in fear, but in balance. It is the art of harmony between light and shadow, giving and receiving, life and surrender.

In India, I met Ganesha, the beloved god with the elephant head — son of Shiva, the destroyer and creator, and Parvati, goddess of love and devotion. When I first saw his image, adorned with marigolds and sandalwood, I felt peace. Ganesha is the remover of obstacles, but also the guardian of beginnings. He teaches that every ending carries a seed — and that true wisdom lies in patience. His large ears remind us to listen before we act. His broken tusk, a symbol of sacrifice, tells us that imperfection can be divine. And his round belly — that soft, forgiving space — holds the universe itself, reminding us to digest both joy and pain with grace. He became my silent teacher, guiding me through the chaos of life with a gentle smile that seemed to say:

“Do not fear what is taken away; something greater is always being prepared.”

In Hawaii, I felt the presence of Ku — god of strength, war, and creation. His spirit moved through the palms, fierce yet kind, like a protector watching over the islands. The Hawaiians speak of mana, the sacred energy that flows through every stone, tree, and tide. It is the same energy I felt in the axé of Bahia, the prana of Bali, and the light of Ganesha’s eyes. Every culture gives it a name — but it all comes from the same source: Deus, the eternal force that breathes life into everything.

And so I understood: Deus is not confined to a church, a temple, or a statue. He is the silence between two heartbeats, the wave that returns to the shore, the flame that refuses to die. He is in the laughter of a Balinese child, in the drums of Candomblé, in the chanting of Om, in the rustle of Hawaiian palms.

Each god — Shiva, Ganesha, Ku, Yemanjá, Oxum, Deus — spoke a different language, but sang the same truth:

“The divine lives in you. Keep walking, and we will walk with you.”

That night, under the full moon, I offered my own canang sari to the ocean — a prayer of flowers, salt, and gratitude. The wind rose softly, as if answering, carrying my words across the water. And I knew — the gods were listening. The gods were home. The gods were me.

Chapter 97: When the Gods Spoke Through the Music

Some people hear God in prayer. I heard Him in the music.

The first time I felt His voice, it wasn’t in a church or a sacred temple — it was in a song. It came through a melody, a lyric, a rhythm that healed what no doctor, no preacher, no remedy ever could.

In California Love, Tupac shouted to the world that even in chaos, there is light. He sang truth like scripture — raw, unfiltered, and divine. When he said, “Keep ya head up,” it wasn’t just advice — it was a commandment from the universe:

“Stand tall, no matter the storm. Your pain is not your end — it’s your prophecy.”

Whitney Houston was the voice of heaven itself — a reminder that love is the purest prayer. When she sang “Greatest Love of All” or “I Will Always Love You,” it felt like God reminding us to love ourselves first — because self-love is sacred. Every note she hit carried forgiveness, faith, and fire.

Michael Jackson danced between worlds — light and shadow, fame and loneliness, earth and heaven. Through “Heal the World,” “Man in the Mirror,” and “Earth Song,” he became a messenger, teaching that healing begins when we see the divine in others. He was rhythm incarnate — proof that music could unite what the world divides.

Tina Turner — fierce as thunder, unstoppable as flame. She didn’t just sing; she survived in melody. “What’s Love Got to Do With It” became a declaration of freedom — a woman reclaiming her power through fire and grace. In her voice, I heard the spirit of Iansã — goddess of the storm — breaking chains with every note.

Then came Queen, with Freddie Mercury — untamed, fearless, divine in his defiance. When he sang “We Are the Champions,” it wasn’t about victory — it was about resilience. He sang for every soul that ever felt different, misunderstood, or unseen. His voice was liberation, echoing across generations like a hymn for the brave.

Maxi Jazz, from Faithless, spoke the language of spirit through electronic heartbeat and soul poetry. In “God Is a DJ,” he said it plain —

“This is my church. Music is my religion.” And I understood him. Because I, too, had found my temple in sound. Each beat, each vibration, became a prayer.

Amy Winehouse — the fragile goddess of truth. Her voice carried the ache of angels who fell just to remind us what beauty pain can create. In “Back to Black,” I heard heartbreak baptized in art, soul turned into sound. Even in her sorrow, she reminded me that vulnerability is holy.

And there were others — Aretha Franklin’s Respect, Stevie Wonder’s As, Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World, Elton John’s Your Song, Bill Withers’ Ain’t No Sunshine, Ray Charles, Otis Redding, Etta James, Prince, The Beatles, Bob Marley — all prophets of rhythm, all saints of sound.

Each one carried a message — of love, of rebellion, of hope, of faith. Their voices became my altar, their lyrics my scripture, their rhythm my rosary. Through them, I realized something sacred:

God doesn’t always speak in thunder — sometimes, He whispers in a melody.

The day I understood that, I stopped searching for heaven above me — because I could hear it playing right here on Earth. Every song was a sermon. Every voice was divine. Every beat was God saying, “I’m still here — listen.”

And as I played their songs again — Tupac, Whitney, Michael, Tina, Freddie, Amy, Maxi Jazz, and all the greats — I closed my eyes and smiled.

Because the gods were singing. And for the first time, I could hear them clearly.

Chapter 98: Divine Soundtrack: The Music of the Gods

Tupac Shakur – Keep Ya Head Up, California Love, Changes, Dear Mama Whitney Houston – Greatest Love of All, I Will Always Love You, I’m Every Woman Michael Jackson – Man in the Mirror, Heal the World, Earth Song, Human Nature Tina Turner – What’s Love Got to Do With It, Proud Mary, Simply the Best Queen (Freddie Mercury) – We Are the Champions, Bohemian Rhapsody, Somebody to Love Maxi Jazz / Faithless – God Is a DJ, Insomnia, We Come 1 Amy Winehouse – Back to Black, You Know I’m No Good, Valerie Aretha Franklin – Respect, (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman Stevie Wonder – As, Isn’t She Lovely, Higher Ground Louis Armstrong – What a Wonderful World Elton John – Your Song, Tiny Dancer Bill Withers – Ain’t No Sunshine, Lean on Me Etta James – At Last Prince – Purple Rain, Kiss, When Doves Cry The Beatles – Let It Be, Here Comes the Sun, Imagine (John Lennon) Bob Marley – One Love, Redemption Song, Three Little Birds

Chapter: When the Gods Danced Through Me

There are moments when the music doesn’t just play — it moves you. It slips into your veins, into your breath, into the very rhythm of your heart. And suddenly, you’re no longer the dancer — you are the dance itself.

After hearing the gods through the songs, I began to feel them in my body. Each note was a pulse. Each lyric, a heartbeat. Each rhythm, a message from above.

When Tupac’s words hit — “Keep ya head up” — I lifted mine higher, not out of pride, but gratitude. Whitney made me twirl in the kitchen with tears in my eyes, her voice reminding me that love — even the love for myself — was holy. And when Michael’s “Man in the Mirror” filled the room, I stood there, facing my reflection, and forgave the woman staring back.

Music became the bridge between heaven and earth — and I became the bridge between silence and song.

In those moments, I felt the Orixás dancing through me — Iansã spinning in the wind, Oxum flowing in grace, Yemanjá gliding through waves of rhythm. Each movement became an offering, each breath a prayer.

In Bali, I remembered the women who move like petals during their temple ceremonies. Their bodies speak to the gods in gestures of gratitude. And I realized — that’s what I had been doing all along. Every sway, every beat, every sigh — was my own canang sari to the universe.

Shiva, the great cosmic dancer, teaches that creation and destruction are one eternal rhythm. As he dances the Tandava, the world dissolves and begins again — and so did I. Each time I danced, I shed the past. Each time I danced, I was reborn.

When the Hawaiian drums called out, I felt Ku — god of strength — in my spine. The waves moved like breath, and my soul remembered what my body had always known: that the divine doesn’t only live in temples or prayers — it lives in motion, in joy, in rhythm.

So I danced. Through sorrow. Through healing. Through awakening.

And as I moved beneath the moon, barefoot, eyes closed, the gods began to move through me — not as myths, not as stories, but as rhythm, spirit, and truth.

That night, I became everything I had ever prayed for: free.

Because when we dance with the divine, there is no separation. Only energy. Only love. Only eternity.

The gods danced through me — and for the first time, I understood what it meant to truly live.

Chapter 99: Sacred Dance Playlist: When the Gods Move Through Rhythm

Whitney Houston – I’m Every Woman, I Wanna Dance with Somebody Michael Jackson – Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough, Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’, Remember the Time Tupac Shakur – Changes, Do for Love Tina Turner – Proud Mary, The Best, Nutbush City Limits Prince – Kiss, Let’s Go Crazy, 1999 Queen – Don’t Stop Me Now, Another One Bites the Dust Faithless (Maxi Jazz) – We Come 1, Insomnia George Michael – Freedom! ’90, Faith Aretha Franklin – Think, Rock Steady Chaka Khan – Ain’t Nobody Diana Ross – I’m Coming Out Stevie Wonder – Superstition, Higher Ground Gloria Gaynor – I Will Survive Earth, Wind & Fire – September, Boogie Wonderland Donna Summer – Last Dance, Hot Stuff Bob Marley – Could You Be Loved, One Love The Beatles – Twist and Shout, Come Together Amy Winehouse – Rehab, Tears Dry on Their Own

Chapter 100: When the Gods Spoke Through the Music 

The night was still, but the heavens were loud. The stars leaned closer—listening. And then… the rhythm began.

Drums from Bahia met beats from the Bronx, waves from Hawaii kissed thunder from India, and the gods began to sing.

Tupac rose first, voice carved from fire and truth: “Keep ya head up,” he said, and the angels nodded. He rapped for the wounded, the weary, the forgotten— his verses were psalms from the concrete, his words, the roar of Ogun and the wisdom of Orunmila. Through his rhythm, the gods marched.

Whitney followed, her voice pure as Yemanjá’s ocean, spilling light into the dark. When she sang “I Will Always Love You,” it wasn’t just for a lover— it was for humanity itself. Her notes became prayers, rising like incense toward heaven.

Michael moonwalked across the veil. The beat of “Billie Jean” echoed like a heartbeat, and “Man in the Mirror” turned into a sermon. He was Shiva in motion, destroying illusion with every step, rebuilding creation through dance.

Tina, wild and golden, burned like a comet. Her laughter was lightning, her song—“Proud Mary”—a hymn for freedom. She was Oshun and thunder in one breath, rolling down the river of rebirth.

Freddie raised his mic like a torch, “Is this the real life?” he asked— and even the heavens paused to answer. He sang for the souls who didn’t fit the mold, the ones who turned pain into beauty, the ones who knew that art was eternity. Freddie’s crown was made of light.

Maxi Jazz whispered from the shadows, “This is my church…” And the beat became sacred. His words carried Ganesha’s calm, the kind that clears all paths, the kind that reminds us— faith is rhythm, and rhythm is God.

Amy, soft storm of Camden Town, lit a cigarette for the broken-hearted. “Back to Black” was her gospel, raw, tender, divine. She sang what angels couldn’t say— that even sorrow is holy when it’s sung with truth.

And through it all— the drums of Candomblé kept calling, the bells of Shiva kept spinning, the Akua gods of Hawaii breathed through the wind, and Deus—the great spirit above all— smiled through the melody.

Because music was never just sound. It was revelation. It was the language of the gods.

Every chord a prayer, every note a heartbeat, every song a bridge between heaven and earth.

And if you listen closely— in the whisper of a record, in the cry of a guitar, in the echo of your own chest—

you’ll hear them still. The gods. Speaking through the music. Always.

Chapter 101: God Is a DJ 

The bass dropped before the lights did. And in that heartbeat between silence and sound, I felt it— the pulse of something greater than us all.

London, 1999. The city glowed like a living frequency— fog rising from the Thames, neon lights reflecting off wet cobblestones, souls colliding on dance floors that felt like temples.

I remember that song— “God Is a DJ” by Faithless— and how Maxi Jazz’s voice slid through the crowd, smooth, calm, certain, like the voice of a prophet wrapped in rhythm.

“This is my church. This is where I heal my hurts.”

And we all believed him. Because that night, God wasn’t in a cathedral or a chapel— He was behind the decks. Spinning forgiveness in vinyl loops, mixing mercy with basslines.

The drums hit like thunder— steady, sacred, ancient— echoing the pulse of the orixás, the call of the akua gods, the dance of Shiva’s fire. Each beat was a heartbeat, each drop a baptism in sound.

I danced until time disappeared. Until the boundaries between heaven and earth blurred into one shimmering rhythm. We weren’t just bodies— we were prayers in motion. Each movement a confession, each song a redemption.

I looked around that London club and saw every soul lit from within— different faces, one spirit. It was unity, vibration, release. It was joy as worship.

And as Maxi Jazz’s voice floated above us— so grounded yet so divine— I understood something simple and infinite: that maybe heaven has no pews, no altars, no gates.

Maybe heaven is a dance floor where the DJ is God, playing tracks that make even angels move. The setlist endless, the melody eternal.

So when I hear “God Is a DJ” now, I’m back there again— sweat, laughter, London nights. Faithless playing like prophets of rhythm, teaching us that love, in its purest form, is sound.

And I know— I don’t just believe— that somewhere above, the music still plays. The decks still spin. And God… God is still a DJ.

Chapter 102: Rehab

It was that song. Amy’s voice—raw, trembling, defiant— spilled out of every café, every cab, every open window in London. “They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no.” And somehow, it wasn’t just her singing— it was all of us.

Because everyone’s got a rehab story, even if it’s not about substances. Sometimes it’s about heartbreak, or grief, or losing yourself somewhere between the noise and the silence.

When Amy sang, “Yes, I’ve been black, but when I come back, you’ll know, know, know,” I felt it deep in my chest. I’d been there too— that space where your light dims but your spirit whispers, “Wait. I’m not done yet.”

There were times I found myself walking through the sterile corridors of those hospitals—the “crazy” ones, as people say— answering the same question with the same numb honesty. “Why do you think you’re here?” And every time, my answer was the same: “I’ve got no idea.” Because pain doesn’t always explain itself. It just arrives, uninvited. And sometimes, so does healing.

Amy’s song wasn’t about saying no to help— it was about the war between pride and pain, between control and surrender. The struggle to face yourself without breaking. That voice of hers—London grit and Camden soul— became the soundtrack of survival.

I remember hearing it on a rainy night, the city lights reflecting off puddles like broken glass. I stopped walking, closed my eyes, and let her voice wash over me. In that moment, I wasn’t alone. She was every woman who’s fallen, every soul who’s crawled back, every heart that’s whispered, “I’ll be okay.”

Rehab wasn’t just a song—it was confession and resurrection. It was messy, human, real. Amy turned her pain into poetry, and through her, we learned that sometimes saying no is just another way of saying I’m not ready yet.

And that’s okay. Because even when we’re lost in the halls of our own chaos, there’s a melody playing somewhere— reminding us that we can come back. That when we do, the world will know. I’ve walked through the same echoes Amy sang about— the kind that live in white hospital walls and sleepless nights that stretch too long. But every time I came back, I carried a little more light.

Because healing isn’t clean. It’s not quiet. It’s not easy. It’s a jazz song—broken, soulful, half prayer, half scream.

Amy’s voice became my compass, reminding me that even the lost have rhythm, that even the shattered can shine. She didn’t just sing “Rehab”— she preached it, lived it, burned through it. And maybe that’s what God does sometimes— sends angels who sing their truth, so we can find our own.

Now when I hear her voice drift through a London night, I smile. Because I came back too. Not perfect. Not untouched. But real—alive—free.

And I know, just like Amy said, when I came back, you’d know, know, know.

Chapter 103: Higher LoveIt was 2020— a year the whole world seemed to hold its breath. The streets were silent, the skies clearer than they had been in decades, and yet, everywhere I looked, things felt heavy. Uncertain. Fragile.

Then one night, through my headphones, that voice came through— “Things look so bad everywhere…” and I stopped. Because yes— they did. Everywhere.

The song was “Higher Love”— Kygo and Whitney Houston’s reborn anthem, released in 2019, but reaching me right on time, like divine timing always does. Whitney’s voice, resurrected in new light, soared above the sadness of that year— bright, pure, untouchable. She sounded like hope. Like sunlight breaking through lockdown windows.

As she sang, “Bring me a higher love,” I felt something awaken. It wasn’t just romantic longing— it was the ache for something greater: a love beyond fear, beyond isolation, beyond the chaos of a world falling apart.

That song became my prayer. Every beat felt like a heartbeat, every chorus like a call to the divine. It reminded me of the love that exists above all— the one we feel when we look out at the world and still choose compassion, still choose connection, still choose faith.

I remember sitting by my window in silence, watching the world slow down— and for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of the stillness. Whitney’s voice carried something ancient, something holy. It was the sound of her spirit— the same woman who had sung about love for decades— now lifting us through one of humanity’s darkest hours.

Her voice felt like God reaching through the static, reminding us: Love still exists. Even here. Even now.

I think that’s what she meant by a higher love— not just the one we find in someone else, but the one that lifts us when the world feels too heavy. The kind that makes you close your eyes, put your hand on your heart, and whisper, “I’m still here.”

And as that song played, I realized— we were never really alone. We were all just waiting for a higher love to bring us home.

Some songs don’t just play through the speakers— they rise through the soul. Higher Love was one of them. It found me in the quiet storm of 2020, when the world stood still and hearts whispered in the dark for meaning.

Whitney’s voice became more than music; it was medicine. It was memory. It was a message.

Each note felt like God breathing light into fear, reminding me that love is never lost— it only changes form. Even when we fall behind, even when the world feels broken, there’s always a rhythm that lifts us higher.

That’s what divine timing does— it meets you exactly where you are, but never leaves you there. It carries you upward, into grace, into peace, into that quiet knowing that everything—every pain, every silence— was leading you to this moment of clarity.

So now, when I hear Higher Love, I don’t just listen— I rise. Because I’ve learned that love is not something we wait for; it’s something we awaken to.

And in that awakening— in the pulse between the past and what’s next— the music never ends. It just shifts frequency, lifting us again and again toward the light that never fades.

Bring me a higher love. And it did.

Chapter 104: Do for LoveAww… that voice again. Tupac. Smooth, raw, real— like truth wearing a heartbeat. The moment “Do for Love” starts, I feel it deep inside— that gentle ache that only his voice can bring.

“You tried everything, but you don’t give up…” It’s not just a lyric— it’s a mirror. Because isn’t that what love teaches us? To keep showing up, even when it hurts, even when we don’t understand why.

That song was more than a beat and a hook— it was a confession. A story of how love can lift and break us, how it can be both salvation and storm. Only Tupac could rap about struggle and still sound like he was offering hope through the pain. He made love sound human— messy, honest, worth fighting for.

The first time I heard Do for Love, I remember thinking— he’s not just talking about romance. He’s talking about life itself. Because every dream, every purpose, every act of faith is something we do for love.

We do it for love of truth. For love of freedom. For love of self. Even when the world says give up, something divine whispers, keep going.

That’s what Tupac’s music always was for me— divine whispers set to rhythm. He carried the voice of God in a hoodie, the wisdom of prophets in basslines. Through him, pain became poetry, and resilience became prayer.

Every word he spoke felt like it came from someone who’d seen heaven and hell and still chose love anyway.

When I listen to Do for Love now, it feels like a message from beyond— a reminder that love doesn’t fail, it just transforms. That we’re here to give, to grow, to keep trying, no matter how many times the world breaks our heart.

Because that’s what we do for love. We rise. We learn. We begin again.

And maybe that’s why Tupac’s voice still echoes— because he never gave up on love. Not in his music, not in his message, not in the soul of anyone who listens.

When the song fades, the message stays. Because love isn’t just something we fall into— it’s something we fight for. Over and over again.

I think that’s what Tupac meant. That no matter how many times life tests us, how many times the heart breaks, we keep choosing love. Not the easy kind, but the kind that teaches, stretches, redeems.

I’ve done everything for love— crossed oceans, forgiven ghosts, walked through storms with hope as my compass. And even when I didn’t understand why I stayed, why I cared, why I tried— I know now: it’s because love is divine energy. It’s the pulse of creation itself.

Tupac’s voice reminds me of that every time— that love isn’t weakness, it’s faith in motion. And even when it hurts, even when it costs everything, it’s worth it.

Because what we do for love is what shapes who we become. It’s what connects us to God, to music, to one another.

So yes— I’ve tried everything. And I didn’t give up. Because deep down, I knew that’s what the universe does too. It never stops loving us back.

Chapter 105: Nobody Knows Me

Madonna — the queen of reinvention. I grew up listening to her songs, admiring how she constantly evolved yet always stayed true to herself. But “Nobody Knows Me” is different. It feels raw, honest — a mirror of the soul. I think it’s one of my top favorites because it rings so true to my core.

I still remember when Madonna released American Life. I was doing a spinning class at Crunch in West Hollywood when I first heard the track. The beat hit hard — fast, defiant — and suddenly, I felt like I was pedaling through every version of myself. Sweat pouring, lights flashing, and Madonna’s voice cutting through:

“I’ve had so many lives since I was a child And I realised how many times I’ve died.”

That’s exactly how I feel. I’ve lived so many lives — in different countries, through different versions of myself — and in each one, a part of me has died, only for another to be reborn.

“I’m not that kind of guy, sometimes I feel shy.”

I do feel shy sometimes. And sometimes, I connect more with my masculine side — strong, protective, focused. I’m not that kind of guy, but I understand that energy deeply.

“No one’s telling you how to live your life, But it’s a setup until you’re fed up.”

Her words are so true. The world can be cruel — it traps your mind, tells you who to be, what to do, how to look. It’s so hard to find someone to truly admire, someone genuine, someone who’s not wearing a mask.

“Now I’m gonna try to improve my life.”

Yes — and I am. I’ve reached that moment of clarity where change isn’t an option, it’s a necessity. I’ve been misunderstood so many times, but I’ve learned not to care what the world thinks of me. I don’t want anyone’s social disease — especially not the kind that spreads through social media.

“I don’t watch TV, I don’t waste my time, Won’t read a magazine.”

That’s me to the core. I don’t want the noise, the illusions, the distractions. I want what’s real.

Because truly — nobody knows me. Nobody knows me like I know myself. And maybe that’s okay.

Each city I’ve lived in — London, LA, Hawaii, Australia, Brazil — has seen a different version of me. I’ve reinvented myself again and again, not out of vanity but survival. Like Madonna, I keep evolving, learning, shedding old skin.

And through it all, one truth remains: I may have many lives, but my soul — my rhythm — always finds its way back to the music.

Chapter 106: Don´t Stop Believing

Every Sunday morning in Los Angeles, there was one song that could lift the entire room — “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey. It was our anthem at Crunch LA, the soundtrack to sweat, hope, and motion. The lights dimmed, the instructor shouted “turn it up!” and for those few minutes, every pedal stroke felt like a heartbeat.

We’d all rise out of our saddles, running on the bikes, our bodies pulsing with the rhythm. The music echoed through the room, and voices rose together — strangers turned into one breath, one beat:

“Don’t stop believin’ Hold on to that feelin’…”

It was so fitting for LA — a city full of dreamers, seekers, and souls chasing light. Everyone there was searching for something — success, love, peace, recognition, themselves. Some were close to finding it; others were still spinning through the dark. But that song reminded us all to keep going.

I still remember the sweat dripping, the wheels turning, the air thick with energy — that collective belief that maybe, just maybe, things would work out if we kept moving, if we kept believing.

“Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard…”

That line always made me think of Hollywood nights — neon lights, palm trees, the endless hum of ambition. Everyone waiting for their moment, for that one door to open.

And maybe that’s why Don’t Stop Believin’ never fades. Because it’s more than a song — it’s a promise. A reminder that faith is the fuel for every journey, and even when the world feels too heavy or uncertain, the light is still there.

You just have to keep pedaling toward it.

I’ve carried that message with me ever since — from LA to London, from heartbreak to healing, from endings to new beginnings. Life has taken me through storms, surgeries, silence, and second chances. But through it all, I kept believing — in the higher purpose, in love, in my own strength.

Because the truth is, the music never stops. It just changes tempo. And the light — it’s always waiting for those who keep moving toward it.

Chapter 107: Ghetto Gospel

Aww… that song again — Tupac’s “Ghetto Gospel.” A hymn for the lost, a prayer for the restless, a sermon wrapped in rhythm.

When the music video came out, I never imagined one day I’d stand in front of that same corner store in London — the one that felt like it came straight out of his world. It wasn’t just déjà vu. It was divine déjà vu.

I was staying at this fancy hotel by the airport, the kind that looks too clean for the kind of storm I was in. That night, I felt a spiritual interrogation begin. Voices, questions, whispers — “How long have you known him?” “Where did you meet?” “What about Vegas?”

They wanted to know everything about that trip — the one where I stood near the place Tupac was shot, and felt the desert air heavy with unfinished stories. Back then, the spirits had spoken too, telling me things I half remember now, and some things better left unspoken.

But that night in London, the voices told me something strange — “Go to the corner shop. Spend £99 on random things.” It made no sense, but I’ve learned that sometimes the divine speaks in riddles. So I went. I filled a bag with snacks, candles, and bottled water — a small act of faith in the middle of chaos.

The next morning, my bag was lying on the pavement in front of that same shop, as if time had folded itself around me, returning a piece of what was lost. I didn’t remember how it got there, only that I’d been fighting voices, thoughts that pulled me between staying and leaving, between London and somewhere else.

“Leave London,” they said. “The Americans will help you.”

And somehow, they did. In that city of rain and red buses, I met people from all over the States — kind souls who smiled at my Southern accent, who reminded me of warmth, of home, of a faith that transcends borders.

When Tupac’s voice filled the room again — “If I could recollect before my hood days, I’d sit and reminisce, thinkin’ of bliss and the good days…” — I felt it deep in my bones. Because Ghetto Gospel isn’t just a song. It’s a confession. A bridge between earth and heaven, between the pain of this world and the promise of something greater.

Tupac rapped with the weight of prophets, his words cutting through illusions like thunder: “Before we find world peace, we gotta find peace and end the war in the streets.”

That night, I realized the “streets” he meant weren’t only outside — they were inside us too. Every battle, every doubt, every cry for love echoes that same prayer.

Standing on that London corner, with my heart still trembling from the unseen, I whispered, “Thank you, Tupac.” Because even through chaos, his words reminded me what faith sounds like — raw, honest, relentless.

And when the chorus rose — “If I could teach the world to be a better place…” I closed my eyes and felt peace wash over me.

Maybe we’re all standing at our own corner stores, buying random things we don’t understand, waiting for signs we can’t explain. Maybe that’s faith — listening for the gospel in the ghetto of our own hearts.

Because every soul lost in confusion still hums that same eternal melody — a song of hope, of love, of second chances. And through Tupac’s voice, I remembered: even in the darkest places, God still plays the beat.

Chapter 107: Poker Face

“Can’t read my, can’t read my— No, he can’t read my poker face…”

Another West Hollywood night. Another anthem pulsing through the walls of WeHo, sweat and light swirling in rhythm. Lady Gaga’s Poker Face— that beat, that confidence, that glitter-soaked mystery. It became a soundtrack to a thousand spinning classes, my legs burning, my heart wide open, my mind far from the studio, already dreaming of the desert.

That song always takes me back to Vegas— to the time I decided, on a whim, to go during the Super Bowl. I stayed at Caesars Palace, in the purple Prince suite that faced the Venetian’s dancing fountains. Everything shimmered—water, glass, neon, soul.

And, as always, the spirits came. They whispered their familiar instructions: “Buy random things.” So I did. Alcohol. Snacks. Smokes. Gatorade, Red Bull, champagne. Always the same strange list, always 3 to 5 glasses lined up on the floor like offerings to some unseen rhythm. Music played in the background—my music, the songs that connect me to another realm.

The voices reminded me again— “I was there when Tupac got shot.” That memory still lives somewhere deep, a blur of lights, noise, fear. They said I was young, and the security carried me away as I tried to reach my brother. Sometimes I wonder what’s real, what’s memory, what’s spirit. But the feeling— that I’ve always been near the fire— that, I know, is true.

When I hear Poker Face, I also think of my grandpa. He loved to play cards— not for the money, but for the thrill of the game, the quiet tension of chance and destiny. I’d sit beside him for hours, the only little girl in a room full of kings.

My job was to listen for their calls— one of them would tap his glass, and I’d run downstairs to my grandma’s bar to fetch their drinks. I can still hear the sound of cards shuffling, the smell of tobacco, the laughter and the secrets that floated in that smoky room.

That was my first lesson in life’s poker face— how to hide your hand, how to keep calm when the stakes are high, how to play even when the odds are against you.

Vegas reminded me of that. The lights, the noise, the luck of it all. You can win big, or lose everything in a single hand— but you keep playing. That’s what Gaga sang, what Grandpa lived, what I learned sitting on that carpeted floor with champagne and spirits swirling around me.

Because life’s a game we’re all trying to read— and sometimes, the only way to survive it is to smile through the chaos, hold your cards close, and keep dancing.

Poker face. Heart open. That’s how I’ve learned to play.

Chapter 108: Dreams

“Now here you go again, you say you want your freedom…”

It was the first time I heard that voice — Stevie Nicks, haunting and tender, floating like a whisper through time. Dreams by Fleetwood Mac. A song that feels like it’s always existed, like the sound of the ocean or the hum of memory itself.

I remember the moment vividly — how her voice felt like an open window on a rainy day, how the melody wrapped around me like an old friend saying, “I know exactly what you’ve been through.”

There’s something about Dreams that makes you look back — not with regret, but with that bittersweet ache for the loves we once held close, and the ones we had to let go.

It makes me think of the souls I’ve met along my path — the faces, the moments, those fleeting heart connections scattered across the globe. Hawaii, where the ocean whispered forgiveness. Australia, where laughter echoed under endless skies. Los Angeles, where dreams burned bright and sometimes burned out. London, where love wore wool coats and long walks in the rain. Greece, where time stood still between sun and sea. Thailand, where I found calm in chaos. Seattle, gray but beautiful — a city that understands the rhythm of introspection. And Alaska — pure, vast, wild — where silence feels sacred.

Every place held a story, every story held a face, and every face left a dream behind.

When Stevie sings, “Thunder only happens when it’s raining, Players only love you when they’re playing,” it’s like she’s reminding us that love and loss are twin sisters. They dance together — one teaching us to open, the other teaching us to let go.

Maybe that’s why Dreams feels eternal. It’s not just about heartbreak. It’s about the cycle — how love begins again and again in different forms, different cities, different souls.

Listening to it now, I realize the song isn’t just about someone else. It’s about us — the dreamers. Those who keep believing in love no matter how many times the storm comes. Those who still hear the rain and smile, knowing we’ve survived it before.

And as the music fades, I can almost see them — all the souls I’ve loved and left along the way — standing in the soft rain, smiling back.

Because maybe we never lose them. Maybe they just become part of the song.

Chapter 108: Wake Me UP - Avicii The Citizen of the World 

“Feeling my way through the darkness, guided by a beating heart…”

Another soul gone too soon. Avicii — the sound of youth, freedom, and those nights when music felt like sunrise. He gave the world rhythm with a heartbeat, light with a pulse.

After Levels, Wake Me Up became my anthem. Every beat felt like motion, like spirit traveling through sound — a call to those who wander, those who search, those who belong everywhere and nowhere at once.

I still remember the first time I watched the video — the girl standing in that small, sleepy town, feeling different, feeling unseen. And then she finds her people — that electric place where everyone shines, where no one has to hide. She finds a home she never knew she needed. The lyrics echo in my mind:

“So wake me up when it’s all over, when I’m wiser and I’m older…”

That’s exactly how I feel. Like I’m between worlds — not lost, but still searching for the place where I belong. And maybe, just maybe, that place isn’t one single country or city. Maybe it’s the whole world.

Because I’ve lived in many corners of it — breathed the salt air of Hawaii, walked barefoot through Sydney sand, watched the sunset fade behind the London skyline. And every time I think I’ve found home, life reminds me: I belong to the road, to the music, to the journey itself.

Avicii’s music had that rare magic — it made you dance, but it also made you feel. He understood something sacred: that joy and sadness often share the same beat. And even though he’s gone, his sound still lifts the spirit higher, still reminds us to live awake, to live true.

Because Wake Me Up isn’t just a song. It’s a mirror. A reminder that we are all travelers trying to find where our hearts fit. And sometimes, it takes getting lost to remember we were never truly lost at all.

So when I hear that melody rise, I close my eyes and whisper— I’m not from here, I’m not from there. I’m from everywhere. I am a citizen of the world.

And maybe that’s the point. To keep waking up — again and again — until we finally remember we already belong.

Chapter 109: Bad Moon Raising

My grandfather’s song was Bad Moon Rising. Every time it played, something in me stirred — a pulse, a knowing. He was a Scorpio, mysterious and magnetic, always carrying that quiet intensity in his gaze. And maybe that’s why the song felt like ours. My moon lives in Scorpio too — deep waters, unseen storms, emotions that run like rivers beneath calm surfaces.

My sun, though, is in Gemini — the messenger of God, the one who bridges worlds with words and air. Light and dark. Heaven and earth. Sometimes I feel like I’m forever moving between them, dancing on that invisible line where curiosity meets intuition. And then there’s my Venus in Leo — fiery, loyal, radiant with love even when it burns me a little.

I still remember Grandma humming the tune one night as thunder rolled in the distance. Her voice was half laughter, half prophecy. “I see trouble on the way,” she said, eyes glinting with that mischievous wisdom only grandmothers have. “I see earthquakes and lightning… there’s a bad moon rising.”

I looked at her — my heart half in this world, half in the stars — and just giggled. Because somehow, I knew she wasn’t warning me. She was reminding me.

That storms don’t always come to destroy — sometimes they come to awaken. That the bad moon rising might just be my own reflection, calling me back to my power.

And that night, under that swollen, golden moon, I smiled at the sky. Because even the bad moons are beautiful when they’re yours.

Chapter 110: The Best

At last — Tina! She’s simply the best.

That song has followed me through every lifetime of rhythm and resilience. It’s not just a song — it’s a pulse, an anthem of triumph after every storm. And yet, when I hear it now, it feels like something greater. The spirits sing it back to me. Their voices blend with the wind, with the hum of the universe. I hear it softly at first, then stronger:

"You’re simply the best… better than all the rest…"

I smile and whisper back, almost embarrassed by their devotion. “No, no… that’s your song,” I tell them in my humble way. “You’re the best. Better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

But they laugh — that kind of laughter that feels like light. They remind me that love is a mirror. What we send returns. That the way I’ve hung on every word — every whisper from the other side — is what makes the connection real.

"Baby, I’d rather be dead," Tina’s voice belts out — fierce, alive, unashamed. It’s not death she’s singing about; it’s devotion. The kind that lives beyond bodies and time. The kind that dances between realms and refuses to fade.

In your heart, there are stars — every night and every day. That’s what the spirits tell me. That their light never went out, it only moved higher. And every time I hear The Best, I feel them. Not gone — just shining from a place my eyes can’t see but my soul remembers.

So I sing back, softly at first, then louder — for them, for me, for every love that never dies. At last, Tina. You were right all along. Love — real love — is simply the best.

Chapter 111: Finally - Kings of Tomorrow

"Time marches on, never ending... Time keeps its own time..."

Every time this song begins, I stop. I breathe. I feel. There’s something sacred in its rhythm — like a prayer disguised as a beat. “Finally,” they sing, and I think of all my kings and queens, my angels and Gods, the ones who left this world but never really went away.

They move through the music, each one of them — Grandpa with his poker cards and quiet strength, Grandma with her moonlight wisdom, the friends, the loves, the souls who crossed my path and changed my story. They guide me, still.

"And here’s to love, every moment shared..."

That line always strikes me. Because love is what remains. When the body fades, when the noise stops, love hums beneath everything — eternal, invisible, steady.

As the song flows, I imagine a long table of light on the other side — all my ancestors, spirits, and guardians sitting there, smiling. The Kings of Tomorrow. And I bow my head, grateful.

They remind me that I am never alone. That every choice, every detour, every heartbreak, and every miracle was written with purpose. That the pain was the polishing of the crown I now wear — not of gold, but of faith.

"Finally, it has happened to me right in front of my face, and I just cannot hide it..."

It’s not just about love between two people — it’s about divine love, the kind that finally finds you when you stop searching outward and look within. Finally, I understand: I am surrounded by royalty — souls of light who walk with me.

Every time the song fades, I whisper a small prayer: Thank you to my Kings. Thank you to my Queens. Thank you to the love that never ends.

Chapter 112: I Gotta Feeling - The Black Eyed Peas

"Tonight’s gonna be a good night..."

There’s something about this song that instantly lifts your spirit — that California pulse, that Hollywood glow. It’s a song that makes you believe again. Every time those first beats drop, I’m back under the palm trees, driving through Sunset with the top down, city lights flickering like champagne bubbles in the night.

This is the LA anthem — timeless, carefree, and full of possibility. The music video captures it perfectly — the friends, the parties, the laughter, the energy that never sleeps. It’s the sound of dreams chasing the stars.

I always put this song on when I want good news, when I want to shift the energy. It’s like a call to the universe: “Let tonight be the night.” A reminder that life can still surprise you, that joy is still out there — in the rhythm, in the crowd, in the small moments of connection.

"Fill up my cup, Mazel Tov!" That line always makes me smile — that’s Beverly Hills for you, the Jewish neighborhood with its own brand of sparkle and soul. You can hear this song drop in the clubs, in spinning classes, in rooftop bars — the whole city moving in sync, celebrating life.

LA is the land of reinvention. And this song, for me, is about exactly that — believing in new beginnings, no matter how many times life knocks you down. It’s the sound of hope in motion, the echo of dreams refusing to die.

"Let’s do it, let’s do it, let’s do it, and do it again..."

Because sometimes, you just know — tonight’s gonna be a good night.

Chapter 113: Breath — The Prodigy

London. March. A sharp, golden sun slicing through the cold air — the kind of day that tricks you into thinking spring has arrived.

I blasted “Breathe” by The Prodigy, and suddenly the city felt alive again — pulsing, pounding, electric. The spirits whispered that the Queen had come back as the sun, and I believed them. How else could London shine like that, after everything?

So there I was, in the smoking area, surrounded by those polished black cabs lined in a perfect row like royal guards. I turned the music up, louder — “Breathe with me!” — and started to move, half dancing, half surrendering to that wild London rhythm. Some people watched, a few nodded their heads in time with the beat. For a moment, it felt like we were all connected — strangers breathing in sync, caught in the same strange light.

Back then, I still let all the voices speak. It was hard to tell what was real, what was memory, and what was dream. The whispers about the Queen’s spirit, about Americans building a White House around Parliament, about planes falling and a new wave of sickness — too many visions, too much truth wrapped in mystery. Sometimes it felt like I was tuned into another frequency, one only the spirits could understand.

That winter nearly broke me. I almost froze — body, mind, and soul — in the same city where, only three months earlier, I’d lived a beautiful year in Kensington. A dream home, sunlight through tall windows, but like all dreams, it eventually dissolved. London has a way of giving you everything — then taking it back the moment you stop holding your breath.

When I left for Germany, I didn’t plan to write. But the words came on their own, like spirits knocking on the door of my heart. In that small Airbnb, far from the noise, I began again.

The first two books were about me — my survival, my journey, my awakening. But this third one… it’s about us. The pact with Deus, with Tupac, with Grandma and Grandpa, with Whitney, and with every other king, queen, angel, and maybe even devil that walks beside me. Because we come as one — all of us — breathing together through space and time.

Sometimes I think of The Prodigy’s words — “Breathe the pressure.” That’s what life is, isn’t it? A test of how much pressure your spirit can take before it transforms into light.

I’ve seen enough visions to know: some things are better kept within. Like the FBI, I’ve learned that not everything the spirit world tells you is meant to be shared — only what’s ready for the world to hear.

For now, I just breathe. And London — wild, haunting, magnificent London — breathes with me.

Chapter 115: 2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted 

I still remember that beat. Heavy, slick, West Coast gold. When 2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted plays, the whole world feels like a movie — and somehow, I’m in it.

Hawaii. Court dates. Documents stacked like walls, the air thick with judgment and ocean breeze. And me — walking in with my shades, heart steady, spirit louder than any gavel. Just like in the video. I swear I was Snoop that day. Cool. Collected. Untouchable.

It’s funny — life imitates art more than we think. In the video, Tupac and Snoop are playing the system, outsmarting it with rhythm, wit, and that fearless energy. That’s how it felt for me — caught between chaos and clarity, still laughing through it all.

Every time Tupac laughs in that song, I can’t help but smile. That sound — half defiance, half freedom — like someone who’s already made peace with his truth. It’s contagious. Because when you’ve been through enough, you stop fearing the storm. You learn to dance in it.

I remember the palm trees swaying outside the courthouse, the sunlight flashing across the ocean, and me thinking — this could be a scene straight out of a West Coast classic. Maybe that’s what life really is — a series of verses and verses, some written by us, some by the divine.

Tupac always said real ones don’t die — they multiply. And standing there, I felt that truth humming through my veins. The system might try to cage you, but your soul’s already free when you know who you are.

When the beat drops, and that laugh hits, I see it all again — the courtroom, the chaos, the calm. And me, walking out into the Hawaiian sun, light as smoke, strong as truth, untouchable.

Because like Pac and Snoop, I know the game. And no matter what they say, I’m still here — smiling through the madness, living proof that the real ones never fade.

[deusim-com]

Book 3: I Built This Life - V6

Chapter 81: California Love

The California anthem — California Love! Every time I hear it, it brings me straight back to L.A., cruising down Mulholland Drive or Sunset Boulevard with the windows down, the warm wind brushing my face, and the city lights glittering like diamonds.

California knows how to party In the city of L.A. In the city of good ol’ Watts In the city, the city of Compton We keep it rockin’… we keep it rockin’.

Yes, they do! Only in L.A. do you get people from all over — from Orange County to Hollywood — coming out to party every night, and even harder on the weekends. It’s a vibe, a rhythm, a whole lifestyle.

There’s nothing like that West Coast energy — the sunshine, the palm trees, the music blasting from every car stereo. The sense that everyone’s chasing something — a dream, a role, a hit song — but still finding time to live, dance, and laugh.

Let’s show these fools how we do it over on this West Side!

Always. The West Side really is better — Venice, Malibu, Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and beyond. It’s freedom, faith, and a touch of wild magic. Tupac captured that energy perfectly — that California spirit of endless summer, of hustle, of shining no matter who’s watching.

California love will forever live in me — because that’s where my wings first opened.

Chapter 81 — California Love[Roger Troutman:]

California love

California knows how to party

California knows how to party

In the city of L.A

In the city of good ol' Watts

In the city, the city of Compton

We keep it rockin', we keep it rockin'

[Dr. Dre:]

Now let me welcome everybody to the wild, wild west

A state that's untouchable like Eliot Ness

The track hits your eardrum like a slug to your chest

Pack a vest for your Jimmy in the city of sex

We in that sunshine state where the bomb-ass hemp be

The state where you never find a dance floor empty

And pimps be on a mission for them greens

Lean mean money-making-machines serving fiends

I been in the game for 10 years making rap tunes

Ever since honeys was wearing Sassoon

Now it's '95 and they clock me and watch me

Diamonds shining, looking like I robbed Liberace

It's all good, from Diego to the Bay

Your city is the bomb if your city making pay

Throw up a finger if you feel the same way

Dre putting it down for Californ-i-a

[Roger Troutman:]

California knows how to party

California knows how to party (Yes, they do)

In the city of L.A

In the city of good ol' Watts

In the city, the city of Compton

We keep it rockin', we keep it rockin'

[Roger Troutman:]

Shake, shake it, baby

Shake, shake it, mama

Shake it Cali, shake it shake it baby

Shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it

[2Pac:]

Out on bail, fresh out of jail, California dreaming

Soon as I step on the scene, I'm hearing hoochies screaming

Fiending for money and alcohol

The life of a Westside player where cowards die and the strong ball

Only in Cali where we riot not rally to live and die

In L.A. we wearing Chucks not Ballys (yeah, that's right)

Dressed in Locs and Khaki suits, and ride is what we do

Flossing, but have caution: we collide with other crews

Famous because we throw grams

Worldwide, let them recognize from Long Beach to Rosecrans

Bumping and grinding like a slow jam, it's Westside

So you know the row won't bow down to no man

Say what you say, but give me that bomb beat from Dre

Let me serenade the streets of L.A

From Oakland to Sac-town, the Bay Area and back down

Cali is where they put their mack down

Give me love!

[Roger Troutman:]

California knows how to party

California knows how to party (Yes, they do)

In the city of L.A

In the city of good ol' Watts

In the city, the city of Compton

We keep it rockin'

[Dr. Dre:] South Central

[2Pac:] Uh, that's right

[Dr. Dre:] Now make it shake

[Roger Troutman:]

Shake, shake it, baby

Shake, shake it, mama

Shake it Cali, shake it shake it baby

Shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it

[Dr. Dre:]

Shake it Cali

Uh, uh, West Coast

Uh, yeah, uh, uh, Long Beach in the house

Uh, yeah, Oaktown, Oakland definitely in the house

Frisco, Frisco

[2Pac:]

And you know L.A. up in here

[Dr. Dre:]

Pasadena where you at?

Yeah, Inglewood

Inglewood always up to no good

[2Pac:]

Even Hollywood trying to get a piece, baby

[Dr. Dre:]

Sacramento, Sacramento where you at?

[2Pac:]

Throw it up ya'll, throw it up, throw it up!

I can't see ya

Let's show these fools how we do it over on this West Side

Cause you and I know it's the best side

Yeah, that's right

West Coast, West Coast 

Chapter 82: These Boots are Made for Walkin´

You keep sayin' you've got somethin' for me

Somethin' you call love but confess

You've been a'messin' where you shouldn't 've been a'messin'

And now someone else is getting all your best

These boots are made for walkin'

And that's just what they'll do

One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you

Ya

You keep lyin' when you oughta be truthin'

And you keep losing when you oughta not bet

You keep samin' when you oughta be a'changin'

Now what's right is right but you ain't been right yet

These boots are made for walkin'

And that's just what they'll do

One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you

You keep playin' where you shouldn't be playin'

And you keep thinkin' that you'll never get burnt (ha)

I just found me a brand new box of matches, yeah

And what he knows you ain't had time to learn

These boots are made for walkin'

And that's just what they'll do

One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you

Are you ready, boots? Start walkin' Chapter 82: These Boots Are Made for Walkin’

Such a great song — that classic beat, that sass, that confidence! I remember spinning to it at Crunch in West Hollywood, legs on fire, sweat dripping, feeling unstoppable. That song always made me feel powerful — like nothing and no one could stand in my way.

But the moment I hear it now, it takes me somewhere completely different — to Indonesia, to the island of Gili Air. That’s where I met my friend Boots — yes, that was really his name — who owned a small hotel right on the beach. I used to hang out there every evening, listening to him DJ while watching the most breathtaking sunsets over the water.

The sky would melt into colors of pink, gold, and violet, the sound of waves blending with the music and laughter. There was always this easy rhythm to life there — barefoot days, salt in my hair, peace in my heart.

I met a group of kind brothers on the island who looked after me like family. Every night, after dancing or chatting under the stars, they’d walk me home to make sure I was safe. It was such a simple, beautiful gesture — pure island kindness.

Every time I hear These Boots Are Made for Walkin’, I smile. It’s not just about strutting in heels or spinning in L.A. anymore — it’s about the freedom of walking your own path, wherever it takes you… from the studio lights of Hollywood to the quiet beaches of Gili Air.

Those boots have walked far — and they’re still walkin’.

Chapter 83: Step By Step

Well there's a bridge and there's a river that I still must cross

As I'm going on my journey

Oh, I might be lost

And there's a road I have to follow, a place I have to go

Well no-one told me just how to get there

But when I get there I'll know

Because I'm taking it

Step by step, bit by bit

Stone by stone (yeah), brick by brick (oh, yeah)

Step by step, day by day, mile by mile (ooh, ooh, ooh)

And this old road is rough and ruined

So many dangers along the way

So many burdens might fall upon me

So many troubles that I have to face

Oh, but I won't let my spirit fail me

Oh, I won't let my spirit go

Until I get to my destination

I'm going to take it slowly because I'm making it mine

Step by step (you know I'm taking it), bit by bit (bit by bit, come move)

Stone by stone (yeah), brick by brick (brick by brick by brick by brick mmm...)

Step by step (step by step uh-huh), day by day (day by day-ee)

Mile by mile (ooh), go your own way

Say it, baby, don't give up

You got to hold on to what you got

Oh, baby, don't give up

You got to keep on moving on don't stop (yeah yeah)

I know you're hurting, and I know you're blue

I know you're hurting but don't let the bad things get to you

Step by step (you know I'm taking it), bit by bit (bit by bit, come move)

Stone by stone (yeah), brick by brick (brick by brick by brick by brick mmm...)

Step by step (step by step uh-huh), day by day (day by day-ee)

Mile by mile (ooh), go your own way

(Come on baby got to keep moving)

(I'm taking it step by step), bit by bit

Stone by stone (yeah, stone by stone), brick by brick

Come on baby

Step by step keep on moving, day by day (day by day-ee)

Mile by mile by mile by mile, go your own way

Come on baby got to keep moving, bit by bit (bit by bit, bit by bit)

Chapter 83: Step By Step

(Whitney Houston — The Anthem of Perseverance)

This song is one of my all-time favorites — Step by Step. I often play it to calm myself down, to remind me that everything will be okay, and that I’m still moving forward no matter how slow it feels.

My favorite part is when Whitney sings:

“Oh, but I won't let my spirit fail me Oh, I won't let my spirit go Until I get to my destination I'm gonna take it slowly because I'm making it mine.”

That verse hits deep. It’s like a prayer for endurance — a promise to myself that I won’t let my spirit fail me until I get where I’m meant to be.

I’ve always thought this should be the firefighters’ song — a real anthem for those who keep going, no matter what. And after 9/11, I used to think of this as New York’s song — about rebuilding, standing tall again, step by step.

The music video gives me chills every time — Whitney in that long coat, standing strong against the city lights. I actually had a similar coat once, but I left it behind at Heathrow Airport on my way to Sweden in 2012. Maybe it was meant to stay in London — the city of strength and dreams.

There’s a part in the song that says:

“Stone by stone (yeah), brick by brick (oh, yeah)...”

And every time I hear that, I can’t help but remember Hawaii — and that day when that Irish-Hawaiian kid threw a stone at my knee for no reason. I’ll never forget how angry and helpless I felt when the police did nothing. His dad owned a big surf rental company on the North Shore, and everyone protected him because of that. Cameras caught it, people saw it, and still — nothing. Corruption at its finest.

He was under 18, full of anger, living off his dad’s money, smoking all day, doing drugs, and thinking he ruled the island. Hawaii was bittersweet — so beautiful yet filled with darkness beneath the paradise postcard. I loved the locals, the sunsets, the sunrises at Waimea Bay — but I also saw the ugly side.

I’m just grateful I got out. Too many innocent people never do. I still remember the story of that Brazilian maid who was killed, and the couple imprisoned for life — but she was innocent. Another victim of the North Shore system. She was from Portland art student who ended up in jail while the real monsters walk free.

Sometimes life feels unfair — but like Whitney says, you keep going: Step by step. Bit by bit. Stone by stone. Brick by brick.

You don’t stop. You don’t give up. You hold on until you reach your destination.

And maybe that’s what Hawaii taught me in the end — that no matter how hard it gets, I’ll keep walking… step by step.

Chapter 84: King of my Castle

Must be he the reason why I'm king of my castle

Must be he the reason why I'm free in my trapped soul

Must be he the reason why I'm king of my castle

Must be he a reason why I'm making examples of you

Must be he the reason why I'm king of my castle

Must be he the reason why I'm free in my trapped soul

Must be he the reason why I'm king of my castle

Must be he a reason why I'm making examples of you

Ahum, ahum

Must be, a reason, why I'm, king of

Must be, a reason, why I'm, king of

This song has such a great beat to dance or do a spin class!   I love the lyrics too i am King of my castle… thats pretty much how i feel.

Chapter 84: King of my Castle

(Wamdue Project — The Beat of Empowerment)

This song has such an incredible beat — perfect for dancing, working out, or even a good spin class. The moment it comes on, I can feel my energy lift. There’s something hypnotic about it — that deep, steady rhythm that makes you feel powerful, grounded, and in control.

“Must be the reason why I’m king of my castle.”

That line always gets me. Because that’s exactly how I feel — I am the queen of my own world, the ruler of my space, the King of my castle. No one else gets to decide how I live, love, or dream.

Whenever I hear it, I picture myself riding through life with that same energy — confident, untouchable, free. Whether I’m spinning at the gym, dancing in my living room, or just driving with the windows down, this song reminds me of my strength.

It’s not about arrogance — it’s about owning your power. We all go through moments when people try to knock us down, make us doubt who we are, or take control of our story. But when this beat drops, I remember — this is my life, my journey, my castle.

I’ve built it stone by stone, just like Whitney said in Step by Step. Every mistake, every lesson, every heartbreak — they’ve all become part of the walls that protect my spirit.

So when I say “I’m King of my castle,” it’s not just a lyric. It’s a declaration. A reminder that I’m the one holding the crown — and I earned it.

Chapter 85: Stairway To HeavenThere's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold

And she's buying a stairway to Heaven

When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed

With a word she can get what she came for

Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to Heaven

There's a sign on the wall, but she wants to be sure

'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings

In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings

Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven

Ooh, it makes me wonder

Ooh, makes me wonder

There's a feeling I get when I look to the West

And my spirit is crying for leaving

In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees

And the voices of those who stand looking

Ooh, it makes me wonder

Ooh, really makes me wonder

And it's whispered that soon if we all call the tune

Then the piper will lead us to reason

And a new day will dawn for those who stand long

And the forests will echo with laughter

Oh-oh-oh-oh-whoa

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now

It's just a spring clean for the May queen

Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run

There's still time to change the road you're on

And it makes me wonder

Ohh, whoa

Your head is humming, and it won't go, in case you don't know

The piper's calling you to join him

Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow? And did you know

Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?

And as we wind on down the road

Our shadows taller than our soul

There walks a lady we all know

Who shines white light and wants to show

How everything still turns to gold

And if you listen very hard

The tune will come to you at last

When all are one, and one is all

To be a rock and not to roll

Chapter 85: Stairway To Heaven

(Led Zeppelin — A Song for the Soul)

This song will always remind me of my grandma. Every time I hear “Stairway to Heaven,” I’m transported back to those quiet mornings in the hospital — just her and me, watching God paint the sky with colors too beautiful to describe. The sun would start to rise around 5 a.m., and for a few precious minutes, everything felt still. Sacred. As if heaven itself had opened its gates to let a little light shine through.

“There’s a feeling I get when I look to the West, And my spirit is crying for leaving…”

Those lines always hit deep. I remember feeling that same ache — that spiritual pull between this world and the next. My grandma was ready for peace, and I could feel her spirit getting lighter each day, as though she was already standing on that stairway, one step away from heaven’s door.

We didn’t need to talk much. The silence between us said everything. There was love, understanding, and gratitude — all wrapped up in those glowing dawns. She taught me that heaven isn’t just a place we go when we leave this world… it’s a light that lives inside us, a melody that never fades.

When the guitars build up in the song, I can almost see her smiling — strong, gentle, eternal. She used to say, “Don’t cry when I’m gone, just look for me in the sunrise.” And she was right. Every pink sunrise or sunset that breaks through the clouds feels like she’s saying hello.

“And it’s whispered that soon, if we all call the tune…”

That line makes me think about the harmony between heaven and earth — how love continues to echo even after we’re gone.

“Stairway to Heaven” isn’t just a song to me; it’s a bridge — between worlds, between hearts, between the living and those who guide us from above. My grandma climbed her stairway with grace, and I know she’s still watching those sunrises with me, whispering through the light: “Keep going, my love. The show goes on.”

Reflection Sometimes I think my grandma is the DJ of my spiritual soundtrack. Every song that plays at the right moment, every light that flickers through the clouds, every unexpected warmth that surrounds me — it feels like her. Music has always been how she reaches me.

“Stairway to Heaven” is more than a memory; it’s a reminder that the ones we love never really leave. They just change form — from touch to light, from words to melodies. And when the music plays, I know she’s near.

Chapter 86: InsomniaDeep in the bosom of the gentle night

Is when I search for the lightPick up my pen and start to writeI struggle, I fight dark forces in the clear moonlightWithout fearInsomniaChorusI can′t get no sleepVerseI used to worryThought I was going mad in a hurryGetting stressed, making excess mess in darknessNo electricity, something's all over me, greasyInsomnia, please release meAnd let me dream of making mad love to my girl on the heathTearing off tights with my teethBut there′s no release, no peaceI toss and turn without ceaseLike a curse, open my eyes and rise like yeastAt least, a couple of weeks since I last slept, kept taking sleepersBut now I keep myself peppedDeeper still, that nightI write by candlelight, I find insightFundamental movement, huh, so when it's blackThis insomniac, take an original tackKeep the beast in my nature under ceaseless attackChorusI gets no sleepI can't get no sleepI can′t get no sleepI can′t get no sleepI need to sleep, I can't get no sleepI need to sleep, I can′t get no sleep

Chapter 86: Insomnia The Beat That Never Sleeps

What a classic! An absolute anthem of the late ’90s and early 2000s. Every time Insomnia by Faithless starts playing, it takes me straight back to London after my college days in Seattle — the time when I lived for the weekend, for the music, for that energy that only London had.

I used to go clubbing almost every weekend — Fridge Bar, 414, Fabric, Ministry of Sound, The Church, The Office… all amazing places, each with its own vibe and heartbeat. London back then was vibrant, alive, electric. The nights never really ended; they just faded into early mornings with laughter, lights, and the feeling that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

I loved house music — always did. The rhythm, the message, the freedom. I loved to dance, to lose myself completely in the beat. Insomnia was one of those songs that united everyone in the room — hands up, eyes closed, feeling the drop.

Maxi Jazz had this calm but powerful voice that made the whole song hypnotic. The irony, of course, is that he wrote it because he literally couldn’t sleep. I can’t get no sleep. The line became iconic — and somehow, I could relate. Those restless London nights, full of dreams and thoughts that wouldn’t stop spinning even when the music did.

And sometimes now, when people piss me off or send bad energy my way, I joke with my grandma’s spirit: "Give them insomnia!" It’s our little inside joke with the spiritual world — playful revenge, lighthearted but powerful.

This song reminds me of that part of my life when I was awake — really awake — to everything: love, music, freedom, and life itself. The energy, the rhythm, the sleeplessness of creation.

London was the city that never slept. And maybe that’s why Insomnia will always be my song — because, deep down, I’m still dancing through those nights, wide awake, unstoppable.

And now, when I listen to it, I feel that divine rhythm running through my soul — the beat that never ends. Maybe God doesn’t sleep either; maybe He’s up there DJing the universe, keeping our hearts in sync with His music. Because even when I can’t get no sleep, I know He’s wide awake, watching, guiding, and keeping the beat going — step by step, beat by beat, miracle by miracle.

Chapter 87: We Will Rock YouBuddy, you're a boy, make a big noise

Playing in the street, gonna be a big man someday

You got mud on your face, you big disgrace

Kicking your can all over the place, singin'

We will, we will rock you

We will, we will rock you

Buddy, you're a young man, hard man

Shouting in the street, gonna take on the world someday

You got blood on your face, you big disgrace

Waving your banner all over the place

We will, we will rock you, sing it

We will, we will rock you

Buddy, you're an old man, poor man

Pleading with your eyes, gonna make you some peace someday

You got mud on your face, big disgrace

Somebody better put you back into your place

We will, we will rock you, sing it

We will, we will rock you, everybody

We will, we will rock you, hmm

We will, we will rock you

Alright

Chapter 87: We Will Rock YouThe Anthem of Champions

What an epic anthem! We Will Rock You by Queen — a song that needs no introduction, no warm-up, no buildup. The moment those stomps and claps start, you feel it in your bones. Boom, boom, clap — that rhythm shakes something ancient inside the human spirit.

Every time I hear it, I’m instantly back in high school in Alaska, bundled up against the cold, cheering under the stadium lights. The football team charging onto the field, the crowd roaring, everyone stomping their boots in sync with that unstoppable beat. It wasn’t just a song — it was power. It was youth. It was victory.

Later in life, We Will Rock You became something bigger for me — it became the sound of greatness. I can’t help but think of Kobe Bryant every time I hear it. They used to play it before basketball games — that same fire, that same spirit. It was the sound of warriors getting ready to conquer.

When I worked at NBC Universal in Los Angeles, I got to live one of those “pinch-me” moments. One afternoon, an email went out to the entire company — “Two extra tickets available for tonight’s Lakers game.” Without hesitation, I replied, “I’ll take them!”

That night, I found myself sitting in the NBC box at the Staples Center, watching the Lakers play live. The energy was electric. Kobe was on the court — graceful, fierce, determined — the embodiment of the song itself. We Will Rock You blared through the arena, and the crowd stomped, clapped, shouted in unison. It was pure magic.

That’s what this song does — it unites people. It’s more than just an anthem; it’s a declaration of strength. Whether in a freezing Alaskan football field or under the bright lights of Los Angeles, it says the same thing: You can’t stop us.

Every time I hear that beat now, I feel like I’m part of something bigger — a reminder that no matter what life throws at me, I’ve got that fire inside. The same fire that fueled Queen, that moved Kobe, that echoed through stadiums full of dreamers.

We will, we will rock you. Yes, we will — one stomp, one clap, one miracle at a time.

Chapter 88: Pure ShoresI've crossed deserts for miles

Swam water for time

Searching places to find

A piece of something to call mine (I'm coming)

A piece of something to call mine (I'm coming)

Coming closer to you

Ran along many moors

Walked through many doors

The place where I want to be

Is the place I can call mine (I'm coming)

Is the place I can call mine (I'm coming)

Coming closer to you

I'm moving, I'm coming

Can you hear what I hear

It's calling you, my dear

Out of reach (Take me to my beach)

I can hear it calling you

I'm coming, not drowning

Swimming closer to you

Never been here before

I'm intrigued, I'm unsure

I'm searching for more

I've got something that's all mine

I've got something that's all mine

Take me somewhere I can breathe

I've got so much to see

This is where I want to be

In a place I can call mine

In a place I can call mine

I'm moving, I'm coming

Can you hear what I hear

It's calling you, my dear

Out of reach (Take me to my beach)

I can hear it calling you

I'm coming, not drowning

Swimming closer to you

Moving, coming

Can you hear what I hear? (Hear it out of reach)

I hear it calling you

Swimming closer to you

Many faces I have seen

Many places I have been

Walked the deserts, swam the shores (Coming closer to you)

Many faces I have known

Many ways in which I've grown

Moving closer on my own (Coming closer to you)

I move it, I feel it

I'm coming, not drowning

I move it, I feel it

I'm coming, not drowning

I'm moving, I'm coming

Can you hear what I hear

It's calling you, my dear

Out of reach (Take me to my beach)

I can hear it calling you

I'm coming, not drowning

Swimming closer to you (Take me to my beach)

I'm moving, I'm coming

Can you hear what I hear

It's calling you, my dear

Out of reach (Take me to my beach)

I can hear it calling you

I'm coming, not drowning

Swimming closer to you

(Take me to my beach)

I'm moving, I'm coming

Can you hear what I hear

It's calling you, my dear

Out of reach (Take me to my beach)

I can hear it calling you

Chapter 88: Pure ShoresFrom Greece to Thailand — and a Miracle in Egypt

Ah, The Beach! It’s amazing how movies can shape our dreams. I remember watching The Beach in college in Seattle — Leonardo DiCaprio escaping society to live freely on a hidden island in Thailand. I didn’t know it then, but that film would soon become a preview of my own adventure.

Not even a year later, I found myself in Greece, and one day, my best friend at the time sent me an email — a Hotmail, of course — saying, “Come to the beach!” He was in Thailand and wrote me a three-page guide explaining exactly how to get there from Greece.

So off I went.

I booked a flight with a 24-hour layover in Egypt. When I landed, they asked me to leave my passport at the airport and sent me to a hotel. That already felt strange, but I didn’t think much of it — I was too excited about seeing the pyramids.

I took a cab, and at first, it was wonderful. The driver was cheerful, talkative, stopping at perfume oil shops where the air smelled of amber, sandalwood, and jasmine. I wanted to buy some oils, but for some reason, my card didn’t work. Thank God it didn’t.

On the way back, everything changed. His smile was gone. He took a different route, one that twisted through narrow roads and sand-colored streets — it looked straight out of Aladdin. My heart sank. I could feel danger in my bones.

So I started praying. Deeply. Then I told him I had cash at the hotel and would give him a big tip if he took me back right away. For a tense moment, he said nothing — then turned the car around. When we reached the hotel, I ran inside. My hands were shaking, but I was safe.

That night, I thanked God for saving me. I didn’t have my passport yet, but I had my life — and that was everything.

The next morning, I flew to Bangkok, then took a boat, a ferry, and a taxi, finally arriving in Koh Samui — just in time for the Full Moon Party. The island was electric — the air buzzing with music, laughter, and freedom.

It felt like stepping straight into The Beach.

But when I think of The Beach, it’s Hawaii that truly captures its spirit for me. The lush jungle, the raw beauty, the isolation, the moments of silence when it’s just you and your thoughts — I lived that. I went through my own kind of bootcamp in the wild, learning to survive, to listen to nature, and to find strength in solitude. Just like Leo in the movie, I learned that paradise isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes it tests you, strips you down, and rebuilds you stronger.

Now, whenever I hear Pure Shores by All Saints — that ethereal, oceanic melody that played through the film — it feels like coming home. It’s a reminder of how far I’ve gone, how fearless I once was, and how deeply the ocean’s energy runs in my soul.

Because sometimes “the beach” isn’t a place. It’s a feeling. A reminder that paradise is not out there — it’s within you, waiting to be discovered, step by step, wave by wave.

Chapter 89: How Do U Want ItHow do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

Love the way you activate your hips and push your ass out

Got a nigga wantin' it so bad I'm 'bout to pass out

Wanna dig you, and I can't even lie about it

Baby, just alleviate your clothes, time to fly up out it

Catch you at a club, oh, shit you got me fiendin'

Body talkin' shit to me but I can't comprehend the meanin'

Now if you wanna roll with me, then here's your chance

Doin' eighty on the freeway, police catch me if you can

Forgive me I'm a rider, still I'm just a simple man

All I want is money, fuck the fame I'm a simple man

Mr. International, player with the passport

Just like Aladdin bitch, get you anything you ask for

It's either him or me, champagne, Hennessey

A favorite of my homies when we floss, on our enemies

Witness as we creep to a low speed, peep what a hoe need

Puff some more weed, funk, you don't need

Approachin' hoochies with a passion, been a long day

But I've been driven by attraction in a strong way

Your body is bangin' baby I love it when you flaunt it

Time to give it to daddy nigga now tell me how you want it

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

Tell me is it cool to fuck?

Did you think I come to talk am I a fool or what?

Positions on the floor it's like erotic, ironic

'Cause I'm somewhat psychotic

I'm hittin' switches on bitches like I been fixed with hydraulics

Up and down like a roller coaster, I'm up inside ya

I ain't quittin' 'til the show is over, 'cause I'ma rider

In and out just like a robbery, I'll probably be a freak

And let you get on top of me, get her rockin' these

Nights full of Alizé, a livin' legend

You ain't heard about these niggas play these Cali days

Delores Tucker, you's a motherfucker

Instead of tryin' to help a nigga, you destroy a brother

Worse than the others, Bill Clinton, Mr. Bob Dole

You're too old to understand the way the game's told

You're lame so I gotta hit you with the hot facts

Want some on lease? I'm makin' millions, niggas top that

They wanna censor me, they'd rather see me in a cell

Livin' in hell, only a few of us'll live to tell

Now everybody talkin' 'bout us, I could give a fuck

I'd be the first one to bomb and cuss

Nigga tell me how you want it

How do you want it? (Tell me)

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

Raised as a youth, tell the truth I got the scoop

On how to get a bulletproof, lickin' shots off from the roof

Before I was a teenager, mobile phone, Skypager

Game rules, I'm livin' major, my adversaries

Is lookin' worried, they paranoid of gettin' buried

One of us gon' see the cemetary

My only hope to survive if I wish to stay alive

Gettin' high, see the demons in my eyes, before I die

I wanna live my life and ball, make a couple million

And then I'm chillin' fade 'em all

These taxes got me crossed up and people tryin to sue me

Media is in my business and they actin' like they know me

But I'ma mash out, peel out

I'm with a clique that's quick to whip that fuckin' steel out

Yeah, nigga, it's some new shit so better get up on it

When you see me, tell a nigga how you want it

How do you want it?

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real (how you want it)

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

How do you want it? (tell me)

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real (tell me)

How do you want it?

How do you feel?

Comin' up as a nigga in the cash game

Livin' in the fast lane, I'm for real

Chapter 89: How Do U Want It

Now this is Tupac in full swagger mode — that unapologetic confidence, that rhythm of someone who’s lived a hundred lives in one lifetime.

“Doin' eighty on the freeway, police catch me if you can…” Every word drips with freedom — the kind that can’t be bought, only earned through fire.

When he says “Forgive me, I’m a rider, still I’m just a simple man,” — that’s the line that gets me. Because behind the fame, the chaos, the headlines, Tupac was really saying what many of us feel: I’m just trying to live my truth. No pretense, no filter — just heart and hustle.

And then the line that seals it for me:

“All I want is money, fuck the fame, I’m a simple man.” I love that. Because fame is noise. But success — real success — that’s peace, security, and champagne shared with the people you love.

“Mr. International, player with the passport…” That’s me too. Always chasing dreams across borders, boarding planes with purpose, chasing sunsets and soul growth. A traveler, a survivor, a dreamer with stamps on her soul and her passport.

When Tupac sings, “Howwww do you want it!” — it’s not just a lyric. It’s a challenge. A question from the universe itself. How do you want it, Sara? Fast and wild, like eighty on the freeway? Or slow and sweet, like champagne under a London moon?

Whatever it is — I want it real. Always.

Chapter 90: Run Through The JungleWhoa, thought it was a nightmare

Lord, it's all so true

They told me, don't go walking slow

The devil's on the loose

Better run through the jungle

Better run through the jungle

Better run through the jungle

Whoa, don't look back to see

Thought I heard a rumblin'

Calling to my name

Two hundred million guns are loaded

Satan cries, "Take aim"

Better run through the jungle

Better run through the jungle

Better run through the jungle

Whoa, don't look back to see

Over on the mountain, thunder magic spoke

Let the people know my wisdom

Fill the land with smoke

Better run through the jungle

Better run through the jungle

Better run through the jungle

Whoa, don't look back to seeChapter 90: Run Through The Jungle

When I hear Run Through the Jungle by Creedence Clearwater Revival, I swear it sounds just like my grandma’s voice when she’s mad — not at me, but at the spirit world. That fierce tone that shakes the air when she says, “Enough already, leave her alone!” And that’s when things start to break — iPhones, glasses, computers, bottles — one by one. It’s like the spirits get startled and scatter, leaving behind a trail of chaos. That’s why the pact is smaller now. Too many restless souls used to come through.

There was one time, right after I left Búzios, when I took a cab to the airport. But for some reason — or maybe a voice from beyond — told me to get out and walk through the jungle back to Rocinha. I don’t know what came over me, but I listened. Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by spikes, thick vines, scorpions, and spiders. Yet I wasn’t afraid. It was like something ancient was testing me — or maybe protecting me. I could almost feel my grandma walking beside me, whispering, “Keep going, darling. You’ll make it through.”

And then there was Hawaii. That night I had to really run through the jungle. I had just come back from L.A., and my friends — the only ones I had — had moved away. I had nowhere to go. So I went to Waimea Valley after hours, thinking it would be peaceful, familiar, maybe even healing.

But that peace didn’t last. The peacock started screaming like an alarm, echoing across the valley. Within minutes, two men appeared from the shadows. Their faces were dark, unfriendly — dangerous. Something deep inside me screamed run! and I did. I leapt over a wall I couldn’t possibly climb in daylight. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was Tupac, my guardian brother, giving me wings.

I ran straight toward the Heiau — the ancient Hawaiian temple and burial ground. No Hawaiian would dare go there at night. I stopped just outside and whispered to the gods — to Ku, to Kamehameha, to Queen Liliʻuokalani — asking for permission to enter and protection to stay. Then I found a chair, hidden in the dark, and sat there — silent. The men searched for a while but never called the cops. That made it worse. It meant they wanted to handle things their own way.

By 3 a.m., I felt something push me off the chair. No one was there — just me, the wind, and the unseen. But I knew it was time to move. The spirits had woken me to save me. So I ran again — barefoot, through the wet jungle, guided by some invisible hand. The trees seemed to part just enough for me to pass. I didn’t stumble, didn’t bleed, didn’t break.

When dawn broke, I found myself near the white spirit waterfall — exhausted, shaking, but alive. I followed the stream until I reached a small cave, where I hid until the sun was high.

By noon, an old security guard I knew from before drove by on his golf cart. “Hi, Sara,” he said, smiling softly. “You can’t stay here, darling. Come on, let’s get you back.”

And that was that. No police. No questions. Just another chapter in my life where I ran through the jungle — chased by fear, guided by faith, protected by something greater.

Every time I hear Run Through the Jungle, I feel that rush again. The drums, the pulse, the heartbeat of survival. And I remember — I’ve already outrun the darkness once. Maybe that’s why I’m still here.

Chapter 91: I Need a DoctorI Need A Doctor

I'm about to lose my mind

You’ve been gone for so long

I’m runnin' out of time

I need a doctor, call me a doctor

I need a doctor, doctor

To bring me back to life

I told the world, one day I would pay it back

Say it on tape, and lay it, record it, so that one day I could play it back

But I don’t even know if I believe it when I’m sayin' that

Doubts startin' to creep in, every day it's just so gray and black

Hope, I just need a ray of that

‘Cause no one sees my vision when I play it for ‘em

They just say it's wack — but they don’t know what dope is

And I don’t know if I was awake or asleep when I wrote this

All I know is, you came to me when I was at my lowest

You picked me up, breathed new life in me, I owe my life to you

But for the life of me, I don't see why you don't see like I do

But it just dawned on me you lost a son, demons fightin' you

It’s dark, let me turn on the lights and brighten me and enlighten you

I don't think you realize what you mean to me, not the slightest clue

‘Cause me and you were like a crew, I was like your sidekick;

you

Gon' either wanna fight when I get off this fuckin' mic, or you

Gon' hug me, but I'm outta options, there's nothin' else I can do

‘Cause—

I'm about to lose my mind

You’ve been gone for so long

I’m runnin' out of time

I need a doctor, call me a doctor

I need a doctor, doctor

To bring me back to life

It hurts when I see you struggle;

you come to me with ideas

You say they're just pieces, so I’m puzzled, ‘cause the shit I hear is

Crazy, but you're either gettin' lazy or you don’t believe in you no more

Seems like your own opinions, not one you can form

Can't make a decision, you keep questionin' yourself

Second guessin' and it's almost like you're beggin' for my help

Like I’m your leader, you're supposed to fuckin' be my mentor

I can endure no more, I demand you remember who you are

It was you who believed in me when everyone was tellin' you

Don't sign me, everyone at the fuckin' label, let's tell the truth!

You risked your career for me, I know it as well as you

Nobody wanted to fuck with the white boy

Dre, I’m cryin' in this booth

You saved my life, now maybe it's my turn to save yours

But I can never repay you, what you did for me is way more

But I ain't givin' up faith

And you ain't givin' up on me — get up, Dre!

I'm dyin', I need you, come back for fuck’s sake!

‘Cause—

I'm about to lose my mind

You’ve been gone for so long

I’m runnin' out of time

I need a doctor, call me a doctor

I need a doctor, doctor

To bring me back to life

Bring me back to life

Bring me back to life

I need a doctor, doctor

To bring me back to life

It literally feels like a lifetime ago

But I still remember the shit like it was just yesterday though

You walked in, yellow jump suit, whole room, cracked jokes

Once you got inside the booth, told you, mic smoke

Went through friends, some of them I put on, but they just left

They said they was ridin' to the death

But where the fuck are they now, now that I need them?

I don't see none of them, all I see is Slim

Fuck all you fair-weather friends!

All I need is him

Fuckin' backstabbers!

When the chips were down you just laughed at us

Now you 'bout to feel the fuckin' wrath of Aftermath, faggots!

You gon' see us in our lab jackets

And ask us where the fuck we been?

You can kiss my indecisive ass crack, maggots!

And the cracker's ass, little cracker jack beat

Makin' wack math, backwards producers;

I'm back, bastards!

One more CD and then I’m packin' up my bags, and as

I’m leavin', I’ll guarantee they'll scream:

"Dre, don’t leave us like that, man!"

‘cause—

I'm about to lose my mind

You’ve been gone for so long

I’m runnin' outta time

I need a doctor, call me a doctor

I need a doctor, doctor

To bring me back to life

Chapter 91: I Need a Doctor

There are songs that hit you like lightning — not because of the beat or the fame behind them, but because they know you. I Need a Doctor by Eminem and Dr. Dre isn’t just a song to me — it’s a mirror. It’s my story, my survival, and my conversation with my grandma through the veil between this world and the next.

It was COVID, and no one could visit. The world outside was terrified, and inside, I was fighting for my life. No one thought I’d make it.

The doctors removed my uterus and ovaries without my consent. They opened me up, drained eight liters of water, and realized my organs didn’t look good. So instead of scheduling another operation, they took an executive decision to remove everything. My straight belly — the one I’d earned from years of ab workouts — was gone. I had stitches from below my breasts all the way to my crotch. I couldn’t move from the bed for days, weeks, months.

When I was stuck in that hospital bed for three months — two surgeries, tubes, pain, isolation, and fear — this song became my lifeline.

But she was there — my grandma. Not in body, but in spirit. Her voice was in the sky, in the hum of the machines, in every faint whisper that said, “Don’t you dare give up.”

Every time the chorus played — “I’m about to lose my mind, you’ve been gone for so long…” — I felt like I was screaming into heaven itself, begging her to come hold my hand again. It had been a year since she passed. I missed her more than words could say. I didn’t want to keep living without her — but God had other plans.

For three long years after that, I had to do curativos every single day — cleaning, changing, healing the open wound in my belly — a wound that seemed to symbolize everything I’d lost. But somehow, I survived. I got a job, saved up, paid for the final surgery, and came back to life. That was my miracle.

When Eminem raps, “I told the world, one day I would pay it back, say it on tape and lay it, record it…” I feel that deep in my bones. That’s this — this project. My story. My testimony. My way of paying it back to my grandma, to God, to everyone who thought I wouldn’t make it. Because no one saw my vision then. They said it was wack, but they don’t know what dope is.

That verse — “All I know is, you came to me when I was at my lowest…” — is exactly how I feel about my pact, about my grandma. When everyone else left, when I was down to nothing but faith, she came back. Not in the way the world would understand — but through dreams, signs, whispers, protection.

Eminem says, “Me and you were like a crew. I was like your sidekick.” That’s me and her. My grandma and I were partners — a two-woman army. No one really understands what she means to me. She was my reason, my rhythm, my anchor.

When I was in Hawaii, alone and hunted by danger, I would scream inside my head — “I need you, Grandma!” But she was already gone. My aunt had kept us apart during her last weeks, and I never got to say goodbye. I believe with all my heart that she heard my cry that night — that she left this world to protect me from the other side.

Even now, I can hear her in Eminem’s voice when he says, “Get up, Dre!” That’s her — shouting from heaven, “Get up, Sara!” when I was too weak to move, too broken to believe.

And when Dre raps about the friends who disappeared — “They said they was ridin’ to the death, but where the fuck are they now?” — I feel that truth burning inside me. When I needed them, they were gone. Every single one of them. But my grandma — she never left. It’s just me, her, and the pact now. The rest? Ghosts. Fair-weather friends, gone with the wind.

Now, I’m not the same woman who lay in that hospital bed. I’m not begging for life anymore — I’m living it. And when I hear I Need a Doctor, I don’t cry anymore. I smile. Because I did get my doctor. God and my grandma — they brought me back to life.

I’m still here. And that, right there, is the greatest comeback story of all.

Chapter 92: The Fate of OpheliaI heard you calling on the megaphone

You wanna see me all alone

As legend has it, you

Are quite the pyro

You light the match to watch it blow

And if you'd never come for me

I might've drowned in the melancholy

I swore my loyalty to me, myself, and I (Me, myself, I)

Right before you lit my sky up

All that time, I sat alone in my tower

You were just honing your powers

Now I can see it all (See it all)

Late one night, you dug me out of my grave and

Saved my heart from the fate of

Ophelia (Ophelia)

Keep it one hundred

On the land, the sea, the sky (Land, sea)

Pledge allegiance to your hands

Your team, your vibes

Don't care where the hell you been (Been)

'Cause now, you're mine (Now)

It's 'bout to be the sleepless night

You've been dreaming of

The fate of Ophelia

The eldest daughter of a nobleman

Ophelia lived in fantasy

But love was a cold bed full of scorpions

The venom stole her sanity

And if you'd never come for me (Come for me)

I might've lingered in purgatory

You wrap around me like a chain, a crown, a vine (Chain, crown, vine)

Pulling me into the fire

All that time, I sat alone in my tower

You were just honing your powers

Now I can see it all (See it all)

Late one night, you dug me out of my grave and

Saved my heart from the fate of

Ophelia (Ophelia)

Keep it one hundred

On the land, the sea, the sky (Land, sea)

Pledge allegiance to your hands

Your team, your vibes

Don't care where the hell you been (Been)

'Cause now, you're mine (Now)

It's 'bout to be the sleepless night

You've been dreaming of

The fate of Ophelia

'Tis locked inside my memory

And only you possess the key

No longer drowning and deceived

All because you came for me

Locked inside my memory

And only you possess the key

No longer drowning and deceived

All because you came for me

All that time, I sat alone in my tower

You were just honing your powers

Now I can see it all (I can see it all)

Late one night, you dug me out of my grave and

Saved my heart from the fate of

Ophelia

Keep it one hundred

On the land, the sea, the sky (Land, the sea)

Pledge allegiance to your hands (Your hands)

Your team, your vibes

Don't care where the hell you been (Been)

'Cause now, you're mine ('Cause now)

It's 'bout to be the sleepless night

You've been dreaming of

The fate of Ophelia

You saved my heart from the fate of

Ophelia

Chapter 92: The Fate of OpheliaThe Fate of Ophelia

The first time I heard The Fate of Ophelia, I froze. It sounded like she was saying “Oh Filha…” — my daughter — in Portuguese. It felt like my grandma calling me from the other side, her voice wrapped in the music, soft but powerful, filled with love and longing.

This song reminds me of my grandparents singing to me when I was little. I can still see my grandpa tapping his hand gently on the table, keeping the rhythm, and my grandma smiling as she sang, her voice pure and kind. It was the sound of home — of peace — before life became complicated, before I had to learn what loss really meant.

Every note of that song carries their presence. It feels like it was written just for me, for us — for all the daughters who still hear their ancestors whispering through time.

When I listen, I close my eyes and it’s as if they’re both right here again, in the same room, humming to me through the walls of heaven. Maybe that’s what The Fate of Ophelia really means — not a tragedy, but a promise. A daughter being remembered. A song that bridges worlds.

Because in every “Oh Filha…” I hear my grandma calling me home.

And when the tide rises and the moon pulls the ocean close, I feel her spirit moving through the waves, reminding me that love never drowns — it transforms. Our fates are like rivers, bending and breaking, but always finding their way back to the sea.

That’s why every time I’m near the ocean — especially in Hawaii, standing by Waimea Bay, where the water glows under the moonlight — I feel her there. The same voice, the same rhythm, the same eternal current. It’s the call of my ancestors, and I know that no matter where I go, the sea will always carry me home.

Chapter 93: Have You Ever Seen The RainSomeone told me long ago

There's a calm before the storm

I know, it's been coming for some time

When it's over, so they say

It'll rain a sunny day

I know, shining down like water

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?

Coming down on a sunny day

Yesterday, and days before

Sun is cold and rain is hard

I know, been that way for all my time

'Til forever, on it goes

Through the circle, fast and slow

I know, it can't stop, I wonder

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?

Coming down on a sunny day

Yeah!

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?

Coming down on a sunny day 

Chapter 93: Have You Ever Seen The RainHave You Ever Seen the Rain

Oh, I have seen the rain — in Hawaii. The kind that falls every fifteen or thirty minutes, just long enough to paint another rainbow across the sky. In Hawaii, you can stand in one spot and be drenched, then take a few steps and suddenly you’re dry again. That’s Hawaii — magical, unpredictable, alive with light and water and the promise of the golden pot at the end of the rainbow.

But this song doesn’t just remind me of the beauty of the islands. It reminds me of the hardest storm I ever faced — when I was stuck in that crazy hospital, alone and exhausted, but still holding on. They didn’t force medication on me, and I hadn’t taken anything. But I almost gave in. I remember one day asking for something to numb the pain — not the physical pain, but the grief that was consuming me. The nurse looked at me and said softly, “I admire how you’ve been here for so long and haven’t taken anything.” That was my cue. My sign to stay strong. So I didn’t take anything.

What I really wanted was a pill for grief — for the ache that came from missing my grandma so deeply it hurt to breathe. I used to sit for hours by the window, crying silently, staring at the mountains and the ocean, feeling the emptiness stretch out around me. And then, one day, as my tears fell harder, I noticed something — the rain outside began to pour just as fiercely. It was in sync with me.

The more I cried, the heavier it fell. Until suddenly, it made me stop — just for a second — and smile. That’s when I felt her. My grandma. She was there. In the rhythm of the rain, in the wind brushing against the glass, in the hush that followed each downpour.

She was the rain. God had allowed her to come back.

In Hawaii, they say the spirit walks through the islands last — it’s the final place a soul visits before leaving the earth. That’s why I went back to Hawaii after everything, without even realizing why at first. I thought I was going back to heal, but really, I was going back to meet her again.

Now I know — every time it rains, she’s with me. In the pink sunsets, in the pink sunrises, in the wind that brushes my hair. That’s my grandma — not gone, just transformed. So yes… I have seen the rain. And I’ve seen love come back with it.

Chapter 94: Stayin´AliveTwo, three, four

One, two, three

Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk

I'm a woman's man no time to talk

Music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around

Since I was born

And now it's all right, it's okay

And you may look the other way

But we can try to understand

The New York Times' effect on man

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother

You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'

And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive

Ah when you want

Well now, I get low and I get high

And if I can't get either, I really try

Got the wings of heaven on my shoes

I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose

You know it's all right, it's okay

I'll live to see another day

We can try to understand

The New York Times' effect on man

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother

You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'

And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me

Somebody help me, yeah

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me

I'm stayin' alive

Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk

I'm a woman's man no time to talk

Music loud and the women warm

I've been kicked around since I was born

And now it's all right, it's okay

And you may look the other way

We can try to understand

The New York Times' effect on man

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother

You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'

And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me

Somebody help me, yeah

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me, yeah

I'm stayin' alive

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me

Somebody help me, yeah

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me, yeah

I'm stayin' alive

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me

Somebody help me, yeah

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me, yeah

I'm stayin' alive

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me

Somebody help me, yeah

Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me, yeah

I'm stayin' alive

Chapter 94: Stayin´Alive

This song has such a good vibe — timeless, funky, full of energy and life. Every time I hear it, I’m transported back to the dance floor — to the flashing lights, the laughter, and that unmistakable beat that makes you move whether you want to or not.

I remember dancing to Stayin’ Alive at Olympia, a club in Brazil, when I was just fourteen. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but somehow I always found a way in. The music was loud, the crowd electric, and for a few hours, the whole world made sense. It also takes me back to the legendary Disco 54 — that golden era of glitter, rhythm, and freedom.

Years later, I’d hear it again in the most unexpected moments — like watching Jimmy Fallon’s hilarious sketches with Justin Timberlake, or when my hot old roommate in Australia would blast it in our apartment. He was a total ladies’ man, always charming, always smiling, and that song was practically his anthem.

But beyond the memories and the fun, Stayin’ Alive has a deeper meaning for me now. Because, honestly — I am staying alive. Over and over again.

There were so many times I could have died — in the hospital, in the jungle, in strange countries where things could have gone horribly wrong. Somehow, every time, I made it out. Bruised maybe, but still breathing, still dancing, still here.

So yeah, it’s kind of funny… but not really. Because every time I hear that beat — "Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive" — it feels like my personal soundtrack. A reminder that no matter how many times life tried to take me down, I got back up, put on my metaphorical disco shoes, and kept moving to the rhythm.

Because that’s what survivors do. We keep stayin’ alive. 

Chapter 95: Keep Ya Head UpLittle something for my godson Elijah

And a little girl named Corin

Some say the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice

I say the darker the flesh, then the deeper the roots

I give a holla to my sisters on welfare

2Pac cares if don't nobody else care

And I, I know they like to beat you down a lot

When you come around the block, brothers clown a lot

But please don't cry, dry your eyes, never let up

Forgive, but don't forget, girl, keep ya head up

And when he tells you you ain't nothin', don't believe him

And if he can't learn to love you, you should leave him

'Cause, sister, you don't need him

And I ain't tryin' to gas you up, I just call 'em how I see 'em

You know what makes me unhappy?

When brothers make babies

And leave a young mother to be a pappy

And since we all came from a woman

Got our name from a woman and our game from a woman

I wonder why we take from our women

Why we rape our women, do we hate our women?

I think it's time to kill for our women

Time to heal our women, be real to our women

And if we don't we'll have a race of babies

That will hate the ladies that make the babies

And since a man can't make one

He has no right to tell a woman when and where to create one

So will the real men get up?

I know you're fed up, ladies, but keep ya head up

Keep ya head up, ooh, child

Things are gonna get easier

Keep ya head up, ooh, child

Things'll get brighter (oh-oh)

Keep ya head up, ooh, child

Things are gonna get easier

Keep ya head up, ooh, child

Things'll get brighter

Ayo, I remember Marvin Gaye used to sing to me

He had me feelin' like black was the thing to be

And suddenly the ghetto didn't seem so tough

And though we had it rough, we always had enough

I huffed and puffed about my curfew and broke the rules

Ran with a local crew and had a smoke or two

And I realise Mama really paid the price

She nearly gave her life to raise me right

And all I had to give her was my pipe dream

Of how I'd rock the mic and make it to the bright screen

I'm tryin' to make a dollar out of 15 cents

It's hard to be legit and still pay the rent

And in the end it seems I'm headin' for the pen

I try to find my friends, but they're blowin' in the wind

Last night my buddy lost his whole family

It's gonna take the man in me to conquer this insanity

It seems the rain'll never let up

I try to keep my head up and still keep from gettin' wet up

You know, it's funny, when it rains it pours

They got money for wars but can't feed the poor

Say there ain't no hope for the youth

And the truth is it ain't no hope for the future

And then they wonder why we crazy

I blame my mother for turnin' my brother into a crack baby

We ain't meant to survive, 'cause it's a set-up

And even though you're fed up, huh

You got to keep ya head up

Keep ya head up, ooh, child

Things are gonna get easier

Keep ya head up, ooh, child

Things'll get brighter (oh-oh)

Keep ya head up, ooh, child

Things are gonna get easier

Keep ya head up, ooh, child

Things'll get brighter

And uh, to all the ladies havin' babies on they own

I know it's kinda rough and you're feelin' all alone

Daddy's long gone and he left you by your lonesome

Thank the Lord for my kids even if nobody else want 'em

'Cause I think we can make it, in fact, I'm sure

And if you fall, stand tall and come back for more

'Cause ain't nothin' worse than when your son

Wants to know why his daddy don't love him no more

You can't complain you was dealt this

Hell of a hand without a man, feelin' helpless

Because there's too many things for you to deal with

Dyin' inside, but outside you're lookin' fearless

While tears is rollin' down your cheeks

You steady hopin' things don't fall down this week

'Cause if it did, you couldn't take it

And don't blame me, I was given this world, I didn't make it

And now my son's gettin' older and older

And cold from havin' the world on his shoulders

While the rich kids is drivin' Benz

I'm still tryin' to hold on to survivin' friends

And it's crazy, it seems it'll never let up

But, huh, please, you got to keep ya head up

Chapter 95: Keep Ya Head Up

Only Tupac could calm me down. His voice — raw, real, full of truth — always reaches something deep inside me. Keep ya head up, he says, and somehow, no matter how heavy the world feels, I do.

Some say, “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.” Tupac flips it and gives it power — “I say the darker the flesh, then the deeper the roots.” It’s poetry and protest all at once. His words don’t just hit your ears; they hit your soul.

I love how he gives a shoutout to his sisters on welfare — “2Pac cares if don’t nobody else care.” And I believe him. Tupac really does care. He wasn’t just singing about struggle; he was living it, feeling it, carrying it for everyone who couldn’t.

This line always gets me: “They got money for wars but can’t feed the poor.” That’s the truth right there — decades later, still the same story. It makes me think of all the people I’ve met across continents — from Brazil to LA, Hawaii to London — people just trying to survive while the world spends billions on destruction.

Tupac’s message is timeless. Every time I hear his voice, it’s like he’s talking straight to me — telling me to rise, to believe, to keep my head up no matter what.

Because life will try to break you, over and over again. But as long as Tupac is playing somewhere — as long as his voice echoes through the pain and the chaos — I know I’m not alone.

So when the world gets dark, I turn him up and remind myself: I’m still standing. Still dreaming. Still keeping my head up. 

[deusim-com]

Book 3: I Built This Life - V5

Chapter 73 – Will You Be there Hold me

Like the River Jordan

And I will then say to thee

You are my friend

Carry me

Like you are my brother

Love me like a mother

Will you be there?

Weary, tell me will you hold me?

When wrong, will you scold me?

When lost will you find me?

But they told me

A man should be faithful

And walk when not able

And fight 'til the end, but I'm only human

Everyone's taking control of me

Seems that the world's got a role for me

I'm so confused will you show it to me

You'll be there for me

And care enough to bear me

Hold me (show me)

Lay your head lowly (told me)

Softly then boldly (yeah)

Carry me there (I'm only human)

Lead me (hold me)

Love me and feed me (lead again)

Kiss me and free me (yeah)

I will feel blessed (I'm only human)

Carry (carry)

Carry me boldly (carry, yeah)

Lift me up slowly (yeah)

Carry me there (I'm only human)

Save me (lift me)

Heal me and bathe me (lift me up, lift me up)

Softly you say to me

I will be there (I will be there)

Lift me (told me, yeah)

Lift me up slowly

Carry me boldly (yeah)

Show me you care (will you be there?)

Hold me (woo)

Lay your head lowly (get lonely sometimes)

Softly then boldly (I get lonely, yeah, yeah)

Carry me there (will you be there?)

Need me (woo)

Love me and feed me (lift me up, hold me up)

Kiss me and free me (lift me up sometimes, up sometimes)

I will feel blessed (oh-yeah)

Chapter 73 – Will You Be There

Finally — MJ!

I grew up with Michael Jackson. His songs were the soundtrack of my childhood and beyond: Black or White, Billie Jean, They Don’t Care About Us, Man in the Mirror, Thriller, Bad, and of course, Will You Be There. That one always gets me.

I remember the first time I heard it, how that opening choir gave me chills — it felt holy, like something divine was happening. And when he sang “Hold me, like the river Jordan”, I believed him. I felt that cry from his soul. He wasn’t just performing; he was praying through song.

I always loved the Free Willy movie, too — that whale soaring through the air while MJ’s voice carried it like wings. Pure magic. His music had that kind of power — it could lift even a whale into the sky.

On the other side of my fridge, there’s a photo of Michael Jackson next to Princess Diana — two icons, two legends, two souls gone too soon. I still look at them sometimes and whisper, you both changed the world.

Every time a random cat walks through my house — and there are quite a few — I think of MJ’s Remember the Time music video, with the Egyptian theme and all that gold. There’s something mystical about it, something timeless.

And fight 'til the end, but I'm only human… Those words ring so true. Even the greatest — Michael, Whitney, Tupac, Diana — they were human. They carried the weight of the world on their shoulders, and still they gave us their light.

I’ll never forget where I was when Michael passed away. I was working at NBC Universal, just another regular day, and I had a doctor’s appointment. Then the news broke — they’d taken him to Cedars-Sinai Hospital. I was only a few blocks away. My whole body froze. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. It felt impossible, unreal. Like the world had suddenly gone quiet.

Some losses shake you to your core. When I think of Whitney, Tupac, Ayrton Senna, Princess Diana, Michael, Kobe, Paul Walker, Amy Winehouse, the Queen, my grandma, my grandpa, JFK, MLK… every one of them — it’s the same feeling. You remember exactly where you were. You stop everything. You hold your breath. Because for one brief moment, the whole world stands still.

It’s like a global heartbeat pauses, honoring their souls as they rise. Kings, queens, angels — going home to heaven.

And Michael… The King of Pop is eternal. His voice still carries us boldly through the years.

“In my darkest hour, in my deepest despair… Will you still care?”

Yes, Michael — we do. Always.

Chapter 74 – When You Believe

Many nights we prayed

With no proof, anyone could hear

In our hearts a hopeful song

We barely understood

Now, we are not afraid

Although we know there's much to fear

We were moving mountains

Long before we knew we could, whoa, yes

There can be miracles when you believe

Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill

Who knows what miracles you can achieve?

When you believe, somehow you will

You will when you believe

Ooh-ooh-ooh

Mm-mm, yeah

In this time of fear

When prayer so often proves in vain

Hope seems like the summer bird

Too swiftly flown away

Yet now I'm standing here

My hearts so full, I can't explain

Seeking faith and speakin' words

I never thought I'd say

There can be miracles

When you believe (when you believe)

Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill (mm)

Who knows what miracles you can achieve? (You can achieve)

When you believe, somehow you will

You will when you believe

They don't always happen when you ask

And can it easy to give in to your fears?

But when you're blinded by your pain

Can't see the way, get through the rain

A small but still, resilient voice

Says, "Help is very near, " oh (oh)

There can be miracles (miracles)

When you believe (boy, when you believe, yeah)

Though hope is frail

It's hard to kill (hard to kill, oh, yeah)

Who knows what miracles

You can achieve (you can achieve, oh)

When you believe somehow you will (somehow, somehow, somehow)

Now, you will (I know, I know, know)

You will when you (when you)

Believe

You will when you (you will when you)

Believe

Just believe (believe)

Darling, just believe

You will when you

Believe

Chapter 74 – Believe

Another anthem. Another prayer turned into music.

Through my whole life, I always loved When You Believe — but it wasn’t until Hawaii that I truly lived its message. That song, and the movie The Prince of Egypt, became my light in the darkest chapter of my life.

I can still see it like it was yesterday — the Pupukea farm, the one with the giant gladiator door. I didn’t know then that it was built over a heiau — an ancient Hawaiian sacred site, a cemetery. The god Kū himself, they said, once drank the blood of Captain Cook right there. You could feel it — the place was charged, alive with old spirits and buried energy.

At first, I thought the whispers in my head were stress or exhaustion from working under the hot Hawaiian sun. But day after day, those voices grew louder. They told me the farmer — my boss — wanted to kill me. And truthfully, I was terrified. He did chase me around with a giant facão machete more than once. I was broke, stuck, and too scared to leave. I had promised to work through the summer. So I prayed. Hard.

Even a young couple from New York working there had a mental breakdown and were taken away on stretchers. That’s when I realized — it wasn’t just me. That place was haunted. The energy was too strong, too ancient, too full of unresolved stories.

So I turned to Whitney. I’d come back from those long, heavy days, lock myself in my little room, and press play — When You Believe on repeat. I’d cry until my body couldn’t anymore. But with each listen, peace came, slowly washing over me.

 I’d play Whitney’s voice on repeat. “There can be miracles when you believe…”

That song became my shield. My prayer. My miracle.

It was also there, at the heiau, that something incredible happened. The spirits told me: Your Father owns everything. Do not be afraid. At first, I didn’t understand. My father died before I was born. But that day, I realized who they meant — my Papai do Céu. God Himself. He came to me through the chaos and told me not to be afraid. To be strong. That I was protected.

And in that moment, I knew: I wasn’t alone.

Many nights we prayed With no proof anyone could hear… There can be miracles when you believe…

I prayed every single day. And God did hear me. Out of nowhere, I got a call from a friend in L.A. asking me to design her website, and another from Australia to build an AI insurance app. This was back in 2018. Doors opened when I had no strength left to knock. Just like that, doors opened. God’s timing. God’s way.

“We were moving mountains before we knew we could.” Those lyrics remind me of Matthew 17:20 — the verse a Hawaiian man once gave me when I was in the hospital near Stairway to Heaven.

If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you can tell this mountain to move — and it will move. For nothing will be impossible with God. But for that kind of faith, you must fast and pray.

And that’s what I did.

Yet now I'm standing here, my heart so full I can't explain…

Now I look back and realize — I am speaking words I never thought I’d say. Writing words I never thought I’d write. That’s God working through me. Now, looking back, I understand. When Whitney sang those words — “Though hope is frail, it’s hard to kill” — she wasn’t just singing for herself. She was singing for all of us. For me. For anyone who’s ever been blinded by pain, lost in fear, or searching for light in the middle of the storm.

I have been that person, crying through the rain, whispering, Help me, God. I believe.

And when I hear Whitney’s voice now, I hear my grandma too — whispering in Portuguese, Acredite, filha. Há milagres. Believe, my child. There are miracles.

There truly are.

Because after everything I’ve been through — Hawaii, London, Brazil — I’m still here. Alive. Guided. Protected.

Miracles do exist. Wayne Dyer used to say, “Be the miracle you wish to see.” And somehow, through faith, through writing, through surviving, I’ve become part of that miracle.

I never planned to write this story — I’m a designer, not a writer — but God asked me to. And when I don’t obey, things fall apart. So I write. I tell our story — mine, my grandma’s, Whitney’s, God’s. Because I believe people will find it when they need it most.

And when they do, they’ll hear that small but resilient voice — the same one that saved me — whispering:

Help is very near. There can be miracles. When you believe.

Chapter 75 – Only God Can Judge MeOnly God can judge me (that right?)

Only God, baby (can judge me now)

Nobody else (nobody else)

All you other motherfuckers get out my business (really)

(Only God can judge me now)

Perhaps I was blind to the facts, stabbed in the back

I couldn't trust my own homies just a bunch of dirty rats

Will I, succeed, paranoid from the weed

And hocus pocus I try to focus but I can't see

And in my mind I'm a blind man doin' time

Look to my future 'cause my past, is all behind me

Is it a crime, to fight, for what is mine?

Everybody's dyin' tell me what's the use in tryin'

I've been Trapped since birth, cautious, 'cause I'm cursed

And fantasies of my family, in a hearse

And they say it's the white man I should fear

But, it's my own kind doin' all the killin' here

I can't lie, ain't no love for the other side

Jealousy inside, make 'em wish I died

Oh my Lord, tell me what I'm livin' for

Everybody's droppin' got me knockin' on heaven's door

And all my memories, of seein' brothers bleed

And everybody grieves, but still nobody sees

Recollect your thoughts don't get caught up in the mix

'Cause the media is full of dirty tricks

Only God can judge me

(Only God can judge me) (that's right, baby)

Yeah baby, hahaha

Only God can judge me, only God can judge

(Only God can judge me, only God)

(Only God can judge me)

Only God can judge me, and only God can

(Only God can judge me, only God)

Only God can judge me, God can judge me

(Only God can judge me, only God)

Only God can judge

(Only God can judge me now)

Flatline

I hear the doctor standing over me

Screaming I can make it

Got a body full of bullet holes laying here naked

Still I can't breathe, something's evil in my IV

'Cause every time I breathe, I think they killin' me

I'm havin' nightmares, homicidal fantasies

I wake up stranglin', danglin' my bed sheets

I call the nurse 'cause it hurts, to reminisce

How did it come to this? I wish they didn't miss

Somebody help me, tell me where to go from here

'Cause even thugs cry, but do the Lord care?

Try to remember, but it hurts

I'm walkin' through the cemetery talkin' to the dirt

I'd rather die like a man than live like a coward

There's a ghetto up in Heaven and it's ours, Black Power

Is what we scream as we dream in a paranoid state

And our fate, is a lifetime of hate

Dear Mama, can you save me? And fuck peace

'Cause the streets got our babies, we gotta eat

No more hesitation each and every black male's trapped

And they wonder why we suicidal runnin' around strapped

Mister police, please try to see that there's

A million motherfuckers stressin' just like me

Only God can judge me

(Only God can judge me, only God)

Only God can judge me

Only God can judge (only God can judge me now)

(Only God can judge me, only God)

And only God can judge me (only God can judge me)

Only God can judge me

(Only God can judge me, only God)

Only God can judge me

(Only God can judge me now)

That which does not kill me can only make me stronger

(That's for real)

And I don't see why everybody feel as though

That they gotta tell me how to live my life

(You know?)

Let me live baby, let me live

'Pac I feel ya, keep servin' it on the reala

For instance say a playa hatin' mark is out to kill ya

Would you be wrong, for buckin' a nigga to the pavement?

He gon' get me first, if I don't get him, fool start prayin'

Ain't no such thing as self-defense in the court of law

So judge us when we get to where we're goin wearin' a cross, that's real

Got him, lurked him, crept the fuck up on him

Sold a half a million tapes now everybody want him

After talkin' behind my back like a bitch would

Tellin' them niggas, "You can fade him," punk I wish you would

It be them same motherfuckers in your face that'll rush up in your place

To get your safe, knowin' you on that paper chase

Grass, glass, big screen and leather couch

My new shit is so fetti already sold a key of ounce

Bitch, remember 2Pac and 4-Tay

Them same two brothers dodgin' bullets representin' the Bay

'Pac when you was locked down, that's when I'll be around

Start climbing up the charts, so sick, but they tried to clown

That's why they ride the bandwagon still be draggin' sellin' lies

Don't think I don't see you haters, I know y'all in disguise

Guess you figure you know me 'cause I'm a thug

That love to hit the late night club drunk and buzzed

Been livin' lavish like a player all day

Now I'm 'bout to floss em off, player shit with 4-Tay

Only God can judge me

(Only God can judge me, only God)

Only God can judge me

Only God can judge

(Only God can judge me, only God)

That's real (only God can judge me now)

Only God can judge me

(Only God can judge me, only God)

Only God can judge me

(Only God can judge me)

(Only God can judge me, only God)

Only God can judge me

(Only God can judge me now)

Only God, man (that right?) That's for real

(Only God can judge me now)

Fuck everybody else, know what I'm sayin'?

(Only God can judge me now)

Man, look here, man

My only fear of death is comin' back to this bitch reincarnated, man

(Only God can judge me now)

That's for the homie mental

Hahaha

We up out (only God can judge me now)

(Only God can judge me now)

(Only God can judge me now)

(Only God can judge me now)

Chapter 75 – Only God Can Judge Me

(Only God can judge me now) (That which does not kill me can only make me stronger) (That’s for real)

There are songs that touch your soul, and then there are songs that mirror your soul — and “Only God Can Judge Me” is one of them.

Every time I hear Tupac’s voice echo, I feel like I’m standing between Heaven’s door, halfway between this world and the next — one foot on earth, one foot in the spirit realm. That’s where I’ve lived for years now, balancing between the seen and the unseen, between faith and fear.

Tupac said, “My only fear of death is coming back to this b*** reincarnated.”* And I feel that. Deeply. Because sometimes this world can be so heavy — too cruel, too judgmental, too blind to real pain. I’ve walked through that fire too many times. The hospitals, the labels, the whispers. The people who didn’t understand the spiritual war I was fighting. The ones who thought I was crazy instead of chosen.

But even standing between heaven’s door, I’ve learned one thing: God’s mercy is bigger than any man’s judgment.

When Tupac said, “Only God can judge me,” it wasn’t defiance — it was surrender. It was him giving his pain, his guilt, his struggle to the only One who truly knew his heart. I live that truth now. Because when I was on my knees, praying through the madness — when my spirit was crushed, when I was locked away and forgotten — the only voice that reached me was God’s.

And Tupac’s. Through his music. Through his words. Through his energy.

Sometimes, in the still of night, I feel like I can hear him — that soft, raspy whisper through the veil — reminding me to stand tall. “Keep your head up, Sara. They don’t know what you’ve seen. They don’t know what you’ve lived.”

It’s a strange comfort — knowing that even legends have fears, that even prophets like Tupac longed for peace beyond this earth. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe Earth was never meant to be heaven. Maybe we’re all just walking between worlds, doing our best not to lose our faith.

So I live my life with the same fire: To speak my truth. To protect my peace. To walk boldly with my scars.

Because only God can judge me now. Not the world. Not my past. Not my pain.

And when my time comes — when I finally step through Heaven’s door — I’ll look back, smile, and say:

That which did not kill me made me stronger. Only God can judge me. And that’s for real.

Chapter 76 – knockin' on Heaven's door

Mama take this badge from me

I can't use it anymore

It's getting dark too dark to see

Feels like I'm knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Mama put my guns in the ground

I can't shoot them anymore

That cold black cloud is comin' down

Feels like I'm knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

"You just better start sniffin' your own rank subjugation jack

'Cause it's just you against your tattered libido

The bank and the mortician, forever man

And it wouldn't be luck if you could get out of life alive"

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

(Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door)

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

(Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door)

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

(Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door)

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

(Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door)

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Chapter 76 – Knocking on Heaven’s Door

There are sunsets — and then there are Hawaiian sunsets. The kind that stop time. The kind that make you forget pain for a moment. The kind that whisper, Heaven is not that far away.

That’s how I felt at the hospital by the Stairway to Heaven, looking out over those golden skies, each evening melting into colors too beautiful to describe. It was heaven and hell at once — paperwork, confusion, endless questions, spiritual chaos all around me — yet, when the sun began to set, peace found me.

It felt like my grandma was right there beside me in spirit. I could almost feel her hand on my shoulder, her calm voice reminding me to breathe, to trust, to hold on. The hospital stood at the base of the mountain where the Stairway to Heaven hike begins — and that view, that air, that light — it truly feels like you’re standing at Heaven’s door.

“Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door…” Every lyric felt like my prayer echoing back from the clouds.

Guns N’ Roses were a big part of my high school and college years — loud guitars, wild energy, rebellion. But this song was different. Softer. Sadder. Truer. It wasn’t just rock; it was surrender.

In those moments in Hawaii, between the noise of the world and the silence of my thoughts, this song became the soundtrack of my healing. My body was weak, my spirit bruised, but my faith — my faith was still knocking.

It wasn’t about death. It was about release. Letting go of what no longer serves you, shedding old pain, and trusting that heaven hears your knocks.

And every time I looked up at that mountain, glowing in the last light of day, I felt my grandma smiling from above — telling me she was there, waiting at the door.

So I whispered back through the wind and the waves:

“Grandma, I’m still here. Still climbing. Still believing.”

Because now I know — every sunset, every mountain, every breath that carries peace — is Heaven’s door opening just a little wider.

Chapter 77 – Another Brick in the Wall - Part II

We don't need no education

We don't need no thought control

No dark sarcasm in the classroom

Teacher, leave them kids alone

Hey, teacher, leave them kids alone

All in all, it's just another brick in the wall

All in all, you're just another brick in the wall

We don't need no education

We don't need no thought control

No dark sarcasm in the classroom

Teachers, leave them kids alone

Hey, teacher, leave us kids alone

All in all, you're just another brick in the wall

All in all, you're just another brick in the wall

If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding

How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?

You! (if you don't eat yer meat)

Yes, you behind the bike stands (you can't have any pudding)

(How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?) Stand still, laddy!

You! Yes, you behind the bike stands...

Chapter 77: Another Brick in the Wall (Part II)

This song… it’s more than a classic. It’s a message — timeless, haunting, and strangely prophetic. Every time I hear “We don’t need no education, we don’t need no thought control,” it feels like the spirits are speaking through the lyrics — whispering reminders that true wisdom doesn’t come from classrooms, rules, or systems. It comes from life, from experience, from everything that can’t be taught or contained.

There are times I feel that line echoing deep inside me, especially when I think about how much of life tries to mold us into something we’re not. The schools, the expectations, the silent pressure to conform — it’s like the bricks of a wall we never agreed to build. But this song reminds me that we can break free, one thought at a time, one soul awakening at a time.

I remember listening to Pink Floyd back when I lived in Rio, lying on the floor with the window open, the night breeze rolling in, the sound floating through the city like a secret. Even then, I could feel it — the rebellion, the awakening, the truth hidden in the melody.

Now, when I hear it, I see it as a bridge between worlds — between the living and the spiritual, between freedom and control, between the voice of the soul and the noise of the system. It’s the spirits saying, “Remember who you are. Don’t let the world teach you to forget.”

We are all just another brick in the wall — until we choose not to be.

Chapter 78: Seven Nation ArmyI'm gonna fight 'em off

A seven nation army couldn't hold me back

They're gonna rip it off

Takin' their time right behind my back

And I'm talkin' to myself at night

Because I can't forget

Back and forth through my mind

Behind a cigarette

And the message comin' from my eyes

Says, "Leave it alone"

Don't wanna hear about it

Every single one's got a story to tell

Everyone knows about it

From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell

And if I catch it comin' back my way

I'm gonna serve it to you

And that ain't what you want to hear

But that's what I'll do

And the feelin' comin' from my bones

Says, "Find a home"

I'm goin' to Wichita

Far from this opera forevermore

I'm gonna work the straw

Make the sweat drip out of every pore

And I'm bleedin', and I'm bleedin', and I'm bleedin'

Right before the Lord

All the words are gonna bleed from me

And I will think no more

And the stains comin' from my blood

Tell me, "Go back home"

Chapter 78: Seven Nation Army

This song feels like my grandparents speaking — especially my grandma when she’s mad at the world for hurting me again. “They’re gonna rip it off, takin’ their time right behind my back.” Every word hits like a warning, a pulse, a heartbeat that won’t stop echoing through generations.

I can almost hear her voice in the rhythm, fierce and protective, saying, “Enough.” It’s as if she’s standing up to all the pain, the injustice, the people who tried to break me down or make me question my worth. That beat — steady, relentless — feels like her strength, her spirit marching beside me, refusing to back down.

And that line — “I’m talkin’ to myself at night, because I can’t forget.” That’s me. That’s the sleepless nights replaying everything I wish I could erase, the words I didn’t say, the memories that still sting. I know that feeling too well — the mind looping between past and present, trying to find peace in the noise.

“Don’t wanna hear about it.” Yes. So true. I don’t want to hear another story, another excuse, another reminder of how cruel the world can be. Everyone has their story — from the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell — but this one is mine.

And through it all, that bass line keeps thundering, like my grandpa’s steady hands guiding me, like my grandma’s fire protecting me. Together, they remind me that no matter how loud the world gets, no army — not even seven nations — can destroy a spirit that refuses to surrender.

Chapter 79: Midnight SpecialWell, you wake up in the mornin'

You hear the work bell ring

And they march you to the table

You see the same old thing

Ain't no food upon the table

And no pork up in the pan

But you better not complain, boy

You get in trouble with the man

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a ever lovin' light on me

Yonder come Miss Rosie

How in the world did you know?

By the way she wears her apron

And the clothes she wore

Umbrella on her shoulder

Piece of paper in her hand

She come to see the gov'nor

She want to free her man, oh

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a ever lovin' light on me

If you're ever in Houston

Well, you better do right

You better not gamble

There, you better not fight, at all

Or the sheriff will grab ya

And the boys will bring you down

The next thing you know, boy

Whoa, you're prison bound

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a ever lovin' light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me

Let the Midnight Special shine a ever lovin' light on me

Chapter 79: Midnight Special

Another classic by Creedence Clearwater Revival — “Midnight Special” — and instantly I’m back in Alaska. The fire crackling, the air cold and wild, the stars scattered like diamonds across the sky. I can still see the Swiss guys — those strong, mountain-like men who looked like soldiers — playing guitar and violão, singing their hearts out under the moonlight. We sang Green River, Have You Ever Seen the Rain, and always Midnight Special. The sound of it carried across the wilderness like a prayer.

But this song doesn’t just take me back to Alaska. It takes me to my childhood home — to Grandpa. The way the song starts, it’s his voice in my memory: “Don’t complain. Get up. Help clean the house. And don’t waste food.” That was Grandpa — strong, practical, and full of love disguised as discipline. He never raised his voice without reason, and when he said, “Let the Midnight Special shine a light on you,” I imagine it was his way of saying: let goodness find you, let light follow your honesty.

Then there’s “Yonder come Miss Rosie…” That verse always makes me think of Grandma. I can picture her walking into a room, her apron tied, a note in her hand — determined and elegant all at once. In the song, Miss Rosie’s trying to free her man, and I can’t help but think of Grandma waiting on Grandpa after his card games, shaking her head but still smiling, still standing by him no matter what.

And then comes that warning: “You better do right, you better not gamble…” — that’s the universe echoing her voice. Grandpa might’ve liked his poker nights, but he was no outlaw. He was a man of integrity — a soldier, a provider, a husband who took care of his wife and family until the end.

Every time I hear “Midnight Special,” I feel them both — Grandpa and Grandma — standing by that Alaskan fire with me. The moon above, the wilderness surrounding us, the smell of smoke in the air. Maybe the bears were watching, maybe spirits too. But all I could feel was warmth — the same light the song speaks of.

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me — and may it always shine on them too.

Chapter 80: New York, New YorkStart spreading the news, you're leaving today (tell 'em, Frank)

I want to be a part of it, New York, New York

Your vagabond shoes, they are longing to stray

And step around the heart of it, New York, New York

I wanna wake up in that city, that doesn't sleep

And find your king of the hill, top of the heap

Your small town blues, they're melting away

I'm gonna make a brand-new start of it, in old New York

You always make it there, you make it anywhere

It's up to you, New York, New York

In New York, New York

I wanna wake up in that city, that doesn't sleep

And find I'm king of the hill, top of the list (you bet)

A number one, king of the hill

These little town blues, they have all melted away

And I'm gonna make a brand-new start of it, right there in old New York

You better believe it, folks

You always make it there, you make it anywhere

Come on, come through, New York, New York

Chapter — New York, New York

If there was ever a song that captured the soul of a city, it’s New York, New York. Sinatra’s version made it legendary — that booming voice, that swagger, that confidence that made you feel like anything was possible. His rendition became the city’s heartbeat, its victory cry, its anthem of resilience. Even today, it echoes through Yankee Stadium after every home win and at celebrations that mark the best of life.

I’ve always had so many California songs — the ones that sound like sunshine, beaches, and endless highways — but I felt like I needed to add a New York anthem too. After all, that’s where Tupac and Whitney are originally from — two voices that shaped my world. There’s something about New York that breeds legends, a city that raises dreamers and fighters.

My own memory of New York goes back to when I worked at NBC Universal, right there at 30 Rock. That building is pure energy — you feel the pulse of the city in its walls. I remember one night, working late on a deadline, lost in lines of code and caffeine, I just didn’t leave. I fell asleep at my desk, and when the morning came, everyone thought I had arrived early. I just smiled and said nothing — because the truth was, I had never left.

That’s the thing about New York. It keeps you awake, chasing, believing, daring. It’s the city that never sleeps, and that night, neither did I.

When I think of Sinatra’s voice and the words “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere,” I can still feel the ambition that fueled me — the same fire that burns through every dreamer who ever walked those streets.

New York has that magic — it tests you, but it also teaches you how to rise.

[deusim-com]

Book 3: I Built This Life - V4

Chapter 53 – Don´t You Worry Child.There was a time

I used to look into my father's eyes

In a happy home

I was a king, I had a golden throne

Those days are gone

Now the memory's on the wall

I hear the songs

From the places where I was born

Up on a hill across the blue lake

That's where I had my first heartbreak

I still remember how it all changed

My father said

Don't you worry, don't you worry child

See Heaven's got a plan for you

Don't you worry, don't you worry now

Yeah

Don't you worry, don't you worry now

Yeah

There was a time

I met a girl of a different kind

We ruled the world

I thought I'd never lose her out of sight

We were so young

I think of her now and then

I still here the songs

Reminding me of a friend

Up on a hill across the blue lake

That's where I had my first heartbreak

I still remember how it all changed

My father said

Don't you worry, don't you worry child

See Heaven's got a plan for you

Don't you worry, don't you worry now

Yeah

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Oh-oh, oh, oh

See Heaven's got a plan for you

See Heaven's got a plan for you

See Heaven's got a plan for you

Don't you worry, don't you worry child

See Heaven's got a plan for you

Don't you worry, don't you worry now

Yeah

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Oh-oh, oh, oh

Yeah

Chapter 54 – Don’t You Worry Child

That song used to be my anthem for a long time. I still love it because it rings so true — like a promise stitched into the air.

There was a time I used to look into my father’s eyes, in a happy home. I was a king, I had a golden throne. Those days are gone; now the memory’s on the wall. I used to be the king until my grandparents passed away… but when the chorus hits — “See Heaven’s got a plan for you” — I always hear my grandma. That’s her voice: steady, sure, whispering from the other side, “Vai dar certo, minha filha.” Heaven really does have a plan for me, she’d say, and the song translates it into something the whole world can feel.

I remember the exact Friday in Bondi like it was a sacred postcard. I’d just left LA and fallen in love at first sight with that beach — the water was clean, the sky so wide it made you believe anything was possible. I came on a visitor visa for three months, with nothing certain but a dream and a playlist on repeat. Don’t You Worry Child played like a ritual; every chorus burned in my chest like fuel.

Three days before my visa was up, the Australia Financial Review called me for an interview. I don’t know how it landed in my lap — maybe it was prayer, maybe it was luck, maybe Tupac nudging from somewhere — but my boss, Raj, went through hoops to hire me, to sponsor me, to change my life into something that lasted five years. I still laugh remembering that little test they asked me to do — a tiny job to improve their mobile site. It was a piece of cake, but I’d been distracted by life and nervous roommate drama. My roommate would piss me off at the worst times, but I focused. I steadied. I showed up. By sunset that same Friday, the offer came: You are hired. Start date after Australia Day. I played the song on repeat until my throat felt raw from singing.

That moment — the sun sinking into the Pacific, the phone buzzing, the city of Bondi turning gold — it felt like a confirmation. The vision board that had been tacked to my wall for years finally winked back at me. Bondi had been on that board: dolphins, rainbows, clean sand, surf, epic sunsets and sunrises. It wasn’t just a checklist. It was a prayer written in lipstick and Post-its and stubborn hope. I’d been living the dream.

Bondi became more than a place; it became an alchemy of survival and creation. I started the idea for Bondi Bubble there — a tiny seed of an app born from sunrise conversations and late-night coffee. The first bubble burst like every first try does, messy and loud. But seeds don’t die when bubbles pop. They go deeper. That little app taught me how to build, how to fail, and how to make something that matters. Today, the dream is bigger than code or servers. It’s a movement, a story I’m learning to tell step by step.

The song kept being my soundtrack through it all. When I lost myself, it called me back. When I doubted, it whispered that the map would appear. When the world looked like a closed door, Whitney and Tupac and Grandma would line up behind those speakers, and the chorus would push the door open.

There’s magic in that: the exact second a song becomes more than sound — when it becomes a signal. For me, Don’t You Worry Child was that signal. It told me to keep walking even when the nights were long, even when the oceans seemed too wide. It reminded me that we are all part of something larger than our fear.

Now when I play it, it’s not just nostalgia. It’s a covenant. I think of Grandma ERV, with her hands folded, eyes soft, trusting that God or fate or whatever you want to call it has plans for me I can’t imagine yet. I think of Raj, who saw something in me and bent the rules so I could stay. I think of my younger self in Seattle and LA, dreaming into the dark, and I smile.

So I keep writing the book, building the app, planting one small flag after another. I tell myself the truth the chorus taught me: don’t worry, because heaven — or the universe, or my pact — has a plan. I don’t have to carry everything alone. I just have to keep showing up, step by step, song by song.

And when doubt creeps in — when the contracts look thin, and the nights are long, and the world is tired — I press play, close my eyes, and hear it again: “There was a time I would have believed it, but I know that time has gone…” And then I remember: we came a long way. We’re still going. The road keeps opening. The dream keeps growing. The music keeps saying, don’t you worry, child.

Chapter 55 – Thunder

Just a young gun with a quick fuse

I was uptight, wanna let loose

I was dreaming of bigger things

And wanna leave my old life behind

Not a yes-sir, not a follower

Fit the box, fit the mold

Have a seat in the foyer, take a number

I was lightning before the thunder

Thunder, thunder

Thunder, thun-, thunder

Thun-thun-thunder, thunder, thunder

Thunder, thun-, thunder

Thun-thun-thunder, thunder

Thunder, feel the thunder

Lightning then the thunder

Thunder, feel the thunder

Lightning then the thunder

Thunder, thunder

Thunder

Kids were laughing in my classes

While I was scheming for the masses

Who do you think you are?

Dreaming 'bout being a big star

They say you're basic, they say you're easy

You're always riding in the back seat

Now I'm smiling from the stage while

You were clapping in the nosebleeds

Thunder

Thunder, thun-, thunder

Thun-thun-thunder, thunder, thunder

Thunder, thun-, thunder

Thun-thun-thunder, thunder

Thunder, feel the thunder

Lightning then the thunder

Thunder, feel the thunder

Lightning then the thunder

Thunder

Thunder, feel the thunder

Lightning then the thunder, thunder

Thunder, feel the thunder

Lightning then the thunder, thunder

Thunder, feel the thunder

Lightning then the thunder, thunder

Thunder, feel the thunder

(Never give up, never give up)

Lightning then the thunder, thunder

(Never give up on your dreams)

Thunder, feel the thunder

(Never give up, never give up)

Lightning then the thunder, thunder

(Never give up on your dreams)

Thunder, thunder, thun-, thunder

Thun-thun-thunder, thunder

Thunder, thunder, thun-, thunder

Thun-thun-thunder, thunder

Thunder, thunder, thun-, thunder

Thun-thun-thunder, thunder

Thunder, thunder, thun-, thunder

Thun-thun-thunder, thunder 

Chapter 56 – Thunder

The song Thunder always takes me straight back to Easter weekend on the North Shore of Oahu — a moment that changed everything.

I had just moved into a new house by the beach, a quiet place tucked between the palms, where the ocean hummed like a heartbeat. My roommates had gone away for the weekend, leaving the house stocked from a huge Costco trip — enough food for an army. There were five chocolate monkey heads in the fridge. I thought they were just regular Easter treats. I had one.

I didn’t know it was mushroom chocolate — meant for five to seven people.

I found out the hard way.

At first, I was fine — working on my Aloha Bubble North Shore Legends project, lost in my laptop and the sound of the waves. But soon, everything shifted. The shadows began to move. The trees outside our window bent like they were alive, whispering secrets to each other. I lay on the hammock in the backyard, tears streaming down my face for reasons I couldn’t explain. It was Easter, and I was crying nonstop under the Hawaiian moon.

A sweet girl from California was staying in the house as an Airbnb guest. She saw me crying and felt sorry for me, alone on Easter, so she invited me to have dinner with her friends — nurses from Turtle Bay Hotel. I said yes, hoping a change of scene might help.

Dinner was beautiful — a seafood buffet with lobster, shrimp, and plates of color that could make you forget any sadness. But by the time we sat down, the mushrooms had fully hit. And suddenly, everyone around me looked like a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean — people morphing into sea creatures, eating with tentacles, laughing in distorted echoes. I blinked and realized I couldn’t stay. I politely excused myself, smiling, pretending nothing was wrong.

I walked toward the ocean.

The night air was soft, salty, electric. I had stayed at Turtle Bay before and had a favorite spot by the sea — a little bench near the edge where the waves crashed hard against the rocks. I sat there, whispering, “Please God, bring me back. Bring me back.” I knew something wasn’t right, but I wasn’t afraid. I just wanted to come home — to myself.

And that’s when Thunder started playing in my head.

The music video came alive around me — all those UFOs walking among people. That’s exactly what it felt like. I saw them. They were there. Shapes moving like light, half-human, half-energy. I wasn’t scared — just amazed. The moon was enormous, glowing gold like a portal. I thought of my grandpa — José — and felt him angry, protective, watching over me.

Then I looked at the ocean. Grandma was there too — and she was not happy either. The waves were wild, alive, roaring like thunder. I’d never seen the sea like that, not even at Waimea. It wasn’t just water — it was spirit. The mist rose thick and silver, and the ocean looked like it was breathing. The waves crashed so hard it felt like the earth itself was trembling.

The spirits were awake.

So I sat quietly, watching the sky, listening to the waves speak. The UFOs kept moving through the pool area, blending in with the crowd, watching me too. I could feel their energy — not bad, not scary, just powerful. Protective.

Later, when we drove home, I sat in the back of the truck, the wind in my face, and saw lights flashing across the sky like a freeway in heaven — streaks of blue and white moving fast and silent. Everyone asked what I had taken, and the nurses reassured me I’d be okay. I believed them.

We sat in their living room afterward, playing music, laughing, grounding again in the rhythm of the night. Eventually, I went home, feeling lighter, calm, as if I had walked through a portal and returned new.

The next day, when my roommates came back, they opened the fridge and gasped — one of the monkey heads was gone. That’s when we realized what had happened.

I wasn’t crazy. I was just… expanded.

Now, every time Thunder plays, I remember that Easter — the portal moon, the glowing sky, the UFOs walking among us, the ocean alive with spirit. I remember dying and coming back, again and again. Because that’s what I do — I survive. I rise.

I thank God. I thank Grandma and Grandpa. I thank Tupac, Whitney, and my legends. I thank the UFOs, too — because I know now, they were there to help me. They always have been.

That night, thunder wasn’t just in the sky. It was all around me. Chapter 57 – I´ll Be Missing You

Yeah, this right here (tell me why)

Goes out to everyone that has lost someone

That they truly loved (come on, check it out)

It seems like yesterday we used to rock the show

I laced the track, you locked the flow

So far from hangin' on the block for dough

Notorious, they got to know that

Life ain't always what it seem to be

Words can't express what you mean to me

Even though you're gone, we still a team

Through your family, I'll fulfill your dream (that's right)

In the future, can't wait to see

If you open up the gates for me

Reminisce some time, the night they took my friend (uh-huh)

Try to black it out, but it plays again

When it's real, feelings hard to conceal

Can't imagine all the pain I feel

Give anything to hear half your breath (half your breath)

I know you still livin' your life after death

Every step I take

Every move I make

Every single day, every time I pray

I'll be missing you

Thinkin' of the day

When you went away

What a life to take, what a bond to break

I'll be missing you (I miss you, B.I.G.)

It's kinda hard with you not around (yeah)

Know you in Heaven smilin' down (ha)

Watchin' us while we pray for you

Every day we pray for you

'Til the day we meet again

In my heart is where I'll keep you, friend

Memories give me the strength I need to proceed (uh-huh)

Strength I need to believe

My thoughts, B.I.G., I just can't define (can't define)

Wish I could turn back the hands of time

Us in the six, shop for new clothes and kicks

You and me taking flicks

Makin' hits, stages they receive you on

Still can't believe you're gone (can't believe you're gone)

Give anything to hear half your breath (half your breath)

I know you still livin' you're life after death

Every step I take

Every move I make (I miss you)

Every single day, every time I pray

I'll be missing you (yeah, yeah, yeah)

Thinkin' of the day

When you went away

What a life to take, what a bond to break

I'll be missing you (somebody tell me why)

One glad morning

When this life is over

I know I'll see your face

Every night I pray, every step I take

Every move I make, every single day

Every night I pray, every step I take (every day that passes is a day that I get closer)

Every move I make, every single day (to seeing you again)

Every night I pray, every step I take (we miss you, B.I.G., and we won't stop)

Every move I make, every single day ('cause we can't stop, that's right)

Every night I pray, every step I take

Every move I make, every single day (we miss you, B.I.G.)

Every step I take

Every move I make (I'll miss you)

Every single day, every time I pray

I'll be missing you (yeah, yeah, yeah)

Thinkin' of the day

When you went away

What a life to take, what a bond to break

I'll be missing you

Every step I take

Every move I make

Every single day, every time I pray

I'll be missing you (I'll be missing you)

Thinkin' of the day (thinking of the day)

When you went away

What a life to take, what a bond to break

I'll be missing you

Every step I take (one glad morning)

Every move I make (when this life is over)

Every single day, every time I pray (I know)

I'll be missing you (I'll see your face)

Thinkin' of the day (one glad morning)

When you went away (when this life is over)

What a life to take

Chapter 58 – I’ll Be Missing You

“I’ll Be Missing You” isn’t just a song to me — it’s my grandpa’s song. It’s his anthem. It’s our story.

The summer of 2004 changed me forever.

I had flown to Alaska for a friend’s wedding, surrounded by white snow, mountains, and the soft light of a sky that never went dark. On that flight, I remember looking out the airplane window and seeing a single light shoot up toward the heavens — almost like a soul being carried away. I didn’t know it then, but that was Grandpa José Vieira.

I didn’t have reception in Alaska. When I returned to California and turned my phone back on, it was too late. He was gone.

I never made it to the cemetery.

For seven days straight, I played I’ll Be Missing You on repeat — morning, afternoon, night. My hardwood floors were covered with white tissue papers, a sea of grief. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I ignored every call. The house was silent except for Puffy and Faith Evans singing,

“Every step I take, every move I make, every single day, every time I pray…”

It was like the world had cracked open and everything fell silent inside me. Grandpa wasn’t just my grandfather — he was my father, my best friend, my protector. He raised his children, his grandchildren, and even his great-grandchildren. He loved all of us fiercely, with a steady hand and a laugh that filled the room.

He was the first person I ever loved and lost.

When I finally stopped crying, when the tissues ran out and the air felt heavy from too many tears, I realized Grandpa wouldn’t want to see me like that. So I did something I didn’t feel ready for — I went to spin class. I forced myself back into life, into movement, because that’s what he taught me: keep going, no matter what.

Grandpa never slept much. He was always up at night — playing cards with his brothers, laughing with friends, drinking beer and telling stories. Sometimes he took me along, and my little job was to grab beers for the table. Every time I did, someone slipped me a few coins — barato, they called it — my little tip. Those nights were magic to me. I loved staying up late, just like him. He knew I hated sleeping too, so he’d take me to work early in the morning. But by sunrise, we’d always be back home — buying bread, milk, and cleaning up for the new day.

That was Grandpa: night owl, worker, protector, magician of love.

Now, he’s my moon. He was a Scorpio — deep, mysterious, strong. My moon is also in Scorpio, so that’s how I know we’re connected. When I look up at the night sky, I see him. He’s there, glowing, watching. Grandma is the sky around him — the rain, the sunset, the sunrise, the wind, the ocean — wrapping him in eternity.

Years later, when I was in Búzios, I felt him again. I was sitting by the window, the sun burning on my skin, feeling interrogated by the spirit world — so many emotions, so much unseen energy. Then, as night fell, I saw a star fall from the sky. It didn’t just vanish — it landed softly on the trees in front of me. And suddenly, the tree lit up with an angelic glow, golden and white. Behind it, a light opened like a gate to heaven.

That was him — my Grandpa — coming back, showing me he was here again, allowed to stay near and protect me. From that moment, I stopped crying. I didn’t need to. Because he was back. He’s always back.

Even in London, when I was cold and alone, I felt him. I saw him. He wept for me, seeing his granddaughter struggling to survive in a foreign city. But I made it through. I always do. He helps me every time.

The lyrics still make me cry:

“What a life to take, what a bond to break, I’ll be missing you…”

And this part, from another song that fits so perfectly, always brings me back:

“Wish I could turn back the hands of time, Us in the six, shop for new clothes and kicks.”

Because that was us.

I remember when Grandpa used to take me to the fish shop to pick the fish for lunch. I was only five or seven years old, but I felt like such a big deal standing next to him. All the grandkids got to do it — our little special moments with him. Sometimes he’d take me to the supermarket, walking slowly through the aisles, letting me help him pick things. He always had a list — one for our house, and another for his oldest daughter, who had three kids and had just gone through a divorce. He’d finish our shopping, and then quietly fill another cart for her. No complaints, no big speeches — just pure love in action.

That’s who he was. Always giving. Always providing. Always protecting.

I didn’t go to his burial, but every time I come back to Brazil, I visit him. I take cigarettes and liquor to his grave — little gifts, just like he used to enjoy. For Grandma, I bring chocolates. It’s our ritual now — our way of staying connected between worlds.

Scorpios know what’s hidden. They feel what others don’t. They strike when it’s time — powerfully, unforgettably. That’s me. That’s him.

Every night I pray. Every step I take. Every move I make. Every single day. We can’t stop. We won’t stop.

Because love — real love — doesn’t die.

It just finds new ways to reach you — in a song, a breeze, a beam of moonlight.

Grandpa isn’t gone. He’s just changed form — energy, light, spirit — always near.

Chapter 58 – I have nothing

Share my life, take me for what I am

'Cause I'll never change all my colors for you

Take my love, I'll never ask for too much

Just all that you are and everything that you do

I don't really need to look very much further

I don't wanna have to go where you don't follow

I won't hold it back again, this passion inside

Can't run from myself, there's nowhere to hide

But don't make me close one more door

I don't wanna hurt anymore

Stay in my arms if you dare

Or must I imagine you there

Don't walk away from me

I have nothing, nothing, nothing

If I don't have you, you, you, you, you

You see through, right to the heart of me

You break down my walls with the strength of your love, mm

I never knew love like I've known it with you

Will a memory survive, one I can hold on to

I don't really need to look very much further

I don't wanna have to go where you don't follow

I won't hold it back again, this passion inside

I can't run from myself, there's nowhere to hide

Your love, I'll remember forever

But don't make me close one more door

I don't wanna hurt anymore

Stay in my arms if you dare

Or must I imagine you there

Don't walk away from me

I have nothing, nothing, nothing

Don't make me close one more door

I don't wanna hurt anymore

Stay in my arms if you dare

Or must I imagine you there

Don't walk away from me

Don't walk away from me

Don't you dare walk away from me

I have nothing, nothing, nothing

If I don't have you, you

If I don't have you, oh you

Chapter 59 – I Have Nothing

The Bodyguard was more than a movie — it was a masterpiece, a memory, a mirror of the way love protects, saves, and transforms. I can still watch it on repeat and feel every heartbeat, every look, every note that Whitney sang as if it were the first time.

Whitney was so talented — is so talented. She’s not gone; she’s just singing from another realm now, her voice echoing through heaven and across my heart. I Have Nothing isn’t just a love song — it’s a soul song. It’s what I used to feel every time I looked at my grandma.

“I have nothing, nothing, nothing… if I don’t have you.”

That line says everything. My grandma was my anchor, my warmth, my home. Without her, I felt like I was standing in an empty room — walls still standing, but hollow inside. And yet, her love is still here. She broke down my walls with the strength of her love, and even now, she keeps me standing.

When Whitney sings, “Don’t make me close one more door,” I feel that in my bones. Because there are doors you never want to close — like the one that led to my grandma’s room, where the smell of her sweet tea and her soft voice filled the air. That door stays open in my heart, forever.

Whitney’s voice — that power, that range, that spirit — is a reminder that strength and softness can live in the same breath. She was a warrior wrapped in silk. The Voice, always.

And when I listen now, I can feel Grandma singing along from heaven, smiling like she used to, whispering, “You don’t have nothing, filha — you have me.”

Her love still fills the room. Her voice still carries me through. And through Whitney’s song, I remember — love never ends. It just changes form. It just transforms into light.

Chapter 60 – All Eyes On Me[2Pac:]

Big Syke, Newt, Hank

Beugard, Big Sur

Y'all know how this shit go

All eyes on me

Motherfuckin' O.G

Roll up in the club and shit, is that right

All eyes on me

All eyes on me

But you know what?

[2Pac:]

I bet you got it twisted you don't know who to trust

So many playa hatin' niggas tryin' to sound like us

Say they ready for the funk, but I don't think they knowin'

Straight to the depths of hell is where those cowards goin'

Well are you still down nigga, holla when you see me

And let these devils be sorry for the day they finally freed me

I got a caravan of niggas every time we ride

Hittin' motherfuckers up when we pass by

Until I die; live the life of a boss playa

Cause even when I'm high, fuck with me and get crossed later

The futures in my eyes, cause all I want is cash and thangs

A five-double-oh Benz flauntin' flashy rings, uh

Bitches pursue me like a dream

Been know to disappear before your eyes just like a dope fiend

It seems, my main thing was to be major paid

The game sharper than a motherfuckin' razor blade

Say money bring bitches, bitches bring lies

One nigga's gettin' jealous, and motherfuckers die

Depend on me like the first and fifteenth

They might hold me for a second, but these punks won't get me

We got four niggas, in low riders, and ski masks

Screamin' THUG LIFE every time they pass - all eyes on me

[2Pac:]

Live the life of a thug nigga, until the day I die

Live the life of a boss playa (All eyes on me), cause even gettin' high

All eyes on me

Live the life of a thug nigga, until the day I die

Live the life of a boss playa, cause even gettin' high

[Big Syke:]

Hey, to my nigga 'Pac

So much trouble in the world, nigga

Can nobody feel your pain

The world's changin' everyday, time's movin' fast

My girl said I need a raise, how long will she last

I'm caught between my woman, and my pistol, and my chips

Triple beam, got some smokers on, whistle as I dip

I'm lost in the land with no plan, livin' life flawless

Crime boss, contraband, let me toss this

Needy hookers got a lot of nerve, let my bucket swerve

I'm takin' off from the curb

The nervousness neglect make me pack a tech

Devoted to servin' this, Moet and pay checks

Like Akai satellite nigga I'm forever ballin'

It ain't right parasites triggers and fleas crawlin'

Sucker duck and get busted, no emotion

My devotion is handlin' my business, nigga, keep on coastin'

Where you goin' I been there, came back as lonely homie

Steady flowin' against the grain, niggas still don't know me

It's about the money in this rap shit, this crap shit

It ain't funny niggas don't even know how to act, shit

What can I do, what can I say, is there another way

Blunts and gin all day, twenty-fo' parlay

My little homie G, can't you see, I'm busta-free

Niggas can't stand me - all eyes on me

[2Pac:]

Live the life of a thug nigga, until the day I die

Live the life of a boss playa (All eyes on me), cause even gettin' high

All eyes on me

Live the life of a thug nigga, until the day I die

Live the life of a boss playa (All eyes on me), cause even gettin' high

[2Pac:]

The feds is watchin', niggas plottin' to get me

Will I survive, will I die, come on let's picture the possibility

Givin' me charges, lawyers makin' a grip

I told the judge I was raised wrong, and that's why I blaze shit

Was hyper as a kid, cold as a teenager

On my mobile callin' big shots on the scene major

Packin' hundreds in my drawers; fuck the law

Bitches I fuck with a passion, I'm livin' rough and raw

Catchin' cases at a fast rate, ballin' in the fast lane

Hustle 'til the mornin', never stopped until the cash came

Live my life as a thug nigga until the day I die

Live my life as a boss playa, cause even gettin' high

These niggas got me tossin' shit

I put the top down, now it's time to floss my shit

Keep your head up, nigga, make these motherfuckers suffer

Up in the Benz, burnin' rubber

The money is mandatory, the hoes is for the stress

This criminal lifestyle, equipped with the bulletproof vest

Make sure your eyes is on the mill ticket

Get your money, motherfucker, let's get rich and we'll kick it

All eyes on me

[2Pac:]

Live the life of a thug nigga, until the day I die

Live the life of a boss playa (All eyes on me), cause even gettin' high

All eyes on me

Live the life of a thug nigga, until the day I die

Live the life of a boss playa (All eyes on me), cause even gettin' high

All eyes on me

[2Pac:]

Pay attention my niggas

See how that shit go

Nigga, walk up in this, motherfucker

And it be like, bing

Cops, bitches, everymotherfuckingbody

Live my life as a thug nigga until the day I die

Live my life as a boss playa, cause even gettin' high

I got bustas, hoes and police watchin' a nigga, y'know

I live my life as a thug nigga until the day I die

Livin' life as a boss playa, cause even gettin' high

Hehehe... it's like what they think

I'm walkin' around with some Ki's in my pocket or somethin'

They think I'm goin' back to jail, they really on that dope

Live my life as a thug nigga until the day I die

Live my life as a boss playa

I know y'all watchin', I know y'all got me in the scopes

Live my life as a thug nigga until the day I die

Live my life as a boss playa, cause even gettin' high

I know y'all know this is Thug Life baayy-bay

Y'all got me under surveillance, huh

All eyes on me, but I'm knowin'

Chapter 61 – All Eyez on Me

The first time I heard it — I swear Tupac says “Sara” at the beginning of the song. Every time that part plays, my heart skips. It’s like he’s calling me out directly, saying, “Pay attention. This one’s for you.”

All eyes on me.

That line hits differently when you’ve lived under the spotlight of judgment, when every move, every word, every breath is being watched, analyzed, misunderstood. I’ve been there — in courtrooms, in police stations, in cray hospitals — all eyes on me. It’s exhausting, but also empowering. Because like Pac said: “Until I die, live the life of a boss playa.”

And that’s exactly what I’ve done. Through every breakdown, through every accusation, through every time they tried to make me look crazy — I stood tall. Because I knew who I was, and I knew who had my back: my grandparents, Tupac, and my pacto with Deus. God.

When he says, “Straight to the depths of hell is where those cowards goin’,” I nod. Because I’ve seen that darkness, the kind that tries to swallow you whole. But like Pac, I rose from it — wiser, louder, freer. The future’s in my eyes too, because I still want the good things — not just cash and thangs, but freedom, peace, and purpose.

Sometimes I just listen to Tupac’s voice — talking, laughing, breathing — and it relaxes me. It’s like having a big brother who’s already been through the storm and came out shining. When he says, “The feds is watchin’, niggas plottin’ to get me,” I get it. I’ve felt that too. That paranoia when the world feels like it’s closing in — but you still walk proud.

Pac said, “They think I’m goin’ back to jail — they really on that dope.” I felt that line deep when I was in the hospital in London — those damn keys, those endless watchful eyes. But even then, I smiled. Because they don’t know me. They never did.

This chapter is for my family — and for everyone who’s ever been judged, silenced, or doubted. Live your life as a boss player. Until the day you die.

Because all eyes may be on you — but the only eyes that matter are the ones watching over you from heaven.

 All eyes on me — and I’m good with that.

Chapter 62 – Taste[Tyga:]

D.A.

Hah

Slide on it pimp game with my pinky ring

Lotta gang, lotta bitches, and a icy chain

Why you claim that you rich? That's a false claim

I be straight to the whip, no baggage claim

Whole lotta styles, can't even pronounce the name

You ain't got no style, see you on my Instagram

I be rockin' it like it's fresh out the pan

Only when I'm takin' pics, I'm the middleman

Walk, talk it like a boss, I just lift a hand

Three million cash, call me Rain Man

Money like a shower, that's my rain dance

And we all in black, like it's Gangland

Say the wrong words, you be hangman

Watch me stick to your bitch like a spray tan

Aw, Mr. What-Kind-of-Car-He-In?

And the city love my name, nigga, I ain't gotta say it

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), fuck what a nigga say

It's all the same like Mary-Kate

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), let you get a taste

(Taste, taste), do you love the taste?

Yeah, that's cool, but he ain't like me

Lotta girls like me, niggas wanna fight me

Nigga, get your ass checked like a fuckin' Nike

Me not icy, that's unlikely

And she gon' suck me like a fuckin' Hi-C

Aw, chains on the neck for the whole team

And I feel like Gucci with the ice cream

And my bitch want the Fenty, not the Maybelline

I'm the black JB, the way these bitches scream

Make these bitches scream

Ah, pretty little thing

Like my nigga A.E.

Say, "Yadadadamean"

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), fuck what a nigga say

It's all the same like Mary-Kate

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), let you get a taste

(Yes, yes), do you love the taste?

Yeah, that's cool

[Offset:]

(Offset)

Yeah, I'ma put the drip on the plate, yeah (Drip, drip)

Diamond ice glacier, niggas imitate (Ice, ice)

Ayy, ayy, feed me grapes, Maybach with the drake (Grapes)

Slow pace in the Wraith, got this shit from bae (Skrrt)

Diamonds up to par (Par), the cookie hittin' hard (Hard)

The 'Rari sit in park (Park), on Addy on Mars (Mars)

Shotgun shells, we gon' always hit the target (Blah)

Popcorn, big shell poppin' out the cartridge (Pop it)

3400 Nawfside, Charles Barkley (Nawf)

4-8-8, Ferrari (Skrrt)

Make her get on top of me and ride me like a Harley (Ride)

She wanna keep me company and never wan' depart me, depart me (No)

Yeah, fishtail in the parking lot (Skrrt, skrrt)

I don't kick it with these niggas 'cause they talk about ya (Yeah)

Yeah, and I got the fire, don't make me spark it out ya (Fire)

Yeah, keep it in my back pocket like it's a wallet (Who?)

Like the way she suck it, suck it like a Jolly (Woah)

Stack it up and put it with the whole project (Racks)

And she got that Patek on water moccasin (Patek)

I'm rich in real life, I get that profit, copy (Hey)

[Tyga:]

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), let you get a taste

(Taste, taste), do you love the taste?

Yeah, that's cool, but he ain't like me

(Taste, taste), LA, you can get a taste

(Taste, taste), Miami, you can get a taste

(Taste, taste), Oakland, you can get a taste

(Taste, taste), New York, do you love the taste?

(Taste, taste), Chi-Town, you can get a taste

(Taste, taste), Houston, you can get a taste

(Taste, taste), ayy, Portland, you can get a taste

(Taste, taste), overseas, let them bitches taste

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), she can get a taste

(Taste, taste), do you love the taste?

(Taste, taste), worldwide, they gon' get a taste

Chapter 62 – Taste

Awe… this song. It has so many wonderful lyrics. Every time it plays, I can’t help but smile — because I can hear Tupac through it. It’s like he’s vibing with me, both of us just enjoying the rhythm, singing along, exchanging energy through the beat. Some songs are just songs — but others? They’re conversations between worlds. This one’s ours.

“I be straight to the whip, no baggage claim…”

That line always gets me. No baggage claim — that’s so me. I travel light, just a carry-on, like I’m always halfway between places but fully present wherever I am. Maybe that’s the secret: you can move through life freely when you stop carrying what weighs you down.

“Whole lotta styles, can’t even pronounce the name.”

Exactly. So many styles, so many spirits. I’ve lived in London, Brazil, Germany, Hawaii — and every place added a layer, a rhythm, a style. Even Tupac and my grandma — their spirits have their own styles too. I see them, I feel them, even on Instagram sometimes when I scroll through old pictures and it’s like they’re right there, liking the post from beyond.

“Walk, talk it like a boss, I just lift a hand.”

Three million cash, call me Rain Man. Money like a shower, that’s my rain dance. I laughed when I first heard that, because I literally did a rain dance in Hawaii once. The rain came down and I felt this electric connection — like I was manifesting something bigger than money. Abundance, peace, purpose. Three million? Why not. It’s not about the number — it’s about believing it’s possible.

“Say the wrong words, you be hangman.”

That part cracks me up — because my spirits, Tupac and my grandma, they’re wild. Hahaha. You don’t mess with them. They protect me in their own ways.

“Nigga, get your ass checked like a fuckin’ Nike!”

Yes! That’s the energy. Especially here in Brazil — some guys try to get loud, authoritarian, trying to dominate. But no. Sit down. Get checked like a Nike.

“I’m the black JB, the way these bitches scream.”

When I heard “JB,” I instantly thought of my grandparents. J — José. B — Bete. My two anchors.

And then — “Like my nigga A.E.” A — Ace (grandpa). E — Elizabeth (grandma). See? It’s all connected. The spirits speak through music.

“I don’t kick it with these niggas ‘cause they talk about ya.”

That’s me too. I keep my circle tight. I don’t waste time around people who gossip or doubt. My energy is too sacred for that.

“I’m rich in real life, I get that profit, copy.”

Exactly. Rich doesn’t just mean money — it means purpose, ideas, faith, and love. I’m building something — this book, movie, TV series. It’s a movement. A story that connects Tupac, Whitney, and my grandparents — the voices that guide me.

“(Taste, taste) LA, you can get a taste New York, do you love the taste? Overseas, let them bitches taste Worldwide, they gon’ get a taste.”

Worldwide — yes, they will get a taste. This book isn’t just about music; it’s about energy, love, legacy, and faith. It’s about how rhythm crosses generations and galaxies.

Because some songs don’t just play — they taste like destiny.

Chapter 63 – Human

(I'm only human)

(I'm only, I'm only)

(I'm only human, human)

Maybe I'm foolish, maybe I'm blind

Thinking I can see through this and see what's behind

Got no way to prove it, so maybe I'm lying

But I'm only human after all

I'm only human after all

Don't put your blame on me

Don't put your blame on me

Take a look in the mirror and what do you see?

Do you see it clearer or are you deceived

In what you believe?

'Cause I'm only human after all

You're only human after all

Don't put the blame on me

Don't put your blame on me

(Oh-oh) some people got the real problems

(Oh-oh) some people out of luck

(Oh-oh) some people think I can solve them

(Oh-oh) Lord heavens above

I'm only human after all

I'm only human after all

Don't put the blame on me

Don't put the blame on me

Don't ask my opinion, don't ask me to lie

Then beg for forgiveness for making you cry

Making you cry

'Cause I'm only human after all

I'm only human after all

Don't put your blame on me

Don't put the blame on me

(Oh-oh) oh, some people got the real problems

(Oh-oh) some people out of luck

(Oh-oh) some people think I can solve them

(Oh-oh) Lord heavens above

I'm only human after all

I'm only human after all

Don't put the blame on me

Don't put the blame on me

I'm only human, I make mistakes

I'm only human, that's all it takes

To put the blame on me

Don't put the blame on me

(Ooh) 'cause I'm no prophet or Messiah

(Ooh) you should go looking somewhere higher

I'm only human after all

I'm only human after all

Don't put the blame on me

Don't put the blame on me

I'm only human, I do what I can

I'm just a man, I do what I can

Don't put the blame on me

Don't put your blame on me

Chapter 63 – Human

I love this song because it speaks straight to my soul — I am only human. It’s one of those truths that sounds simple, but it hits deep when you’re living it. People look at me sometimes and expect answers, strength, healing — like I’m supposed to carry the world on my shoulders or be some kind of savior. But I’m not. I’m just a woman doing her best to walk through life with faith, guided by love and spirit, but still human — fragile, flawed, and learning.

“Maybe I’m foolish, maybe I’m blind Thinking I can see through this and see what’s behind.”

That’s exactly it. Sometimes I feel like I see too much — the energies, the signs, the spirits. It’s beautiful but it’s heavy too. And people don’t always understand it. They judge what they can’t see. They call it strange or crazy. But really, I’m just living between two worlds — the spiritual and the human — trying to keep my balance.

“But I’m only human after all, don’t put your blame on me.”

Yes. Please, don’t put your blame on me. I’m not a psychic. I’m not Jesus. I’m not here to save anyone. I can share love, stories, songs — but I can’t fix everyone’s pain. I can’t carry the weight of people’s expectations or their judgment. I’m still figuring out my own journey, just like everyone else.

Some people have real problems — mental illness, voices they can’t explain, kids to feed, bills to pay, hearts that break and don’t heal right away. And yet, they get up every day and keep going. That’s strength. That’s being human.

“I’m only human, I make mistakes.”

This song reminds me to be gentle with myself. To remember that it’s okay not to have it all figured out. It’s okay to fall apart, to cry, to question, to feel lost sometimes. Because that’s part of being alive.

When I hear it, I think about Tupac too. He said it best —

“I can’t be responsible for every black male did.”

Exactly. We can’t be held accountable for what the world chooses to do. We can only be responsible for our own hearts, our own light, our own truth.

So I sing along — not as a cry for help, but as a declaration: I am human. I feel deeply. I make mistakes. I grow. I forgive. I love. And that’s enough.

Because even when people don’t understand me or the spirits I walk with — I know that God does. And He never asked me to be perfect. He just asked me to be human.

Chapter 64 – Way Down We Go

Oh, Father, tell me

Do we get what we deserve?

Oh, we get what we deserve

And way down we go, go, go, go, go

Way down we go, go, go, go, go

Say way down we go

Way down we go

Oh, you let your feet run wild

Time has come as we all fall, go down

Yeah, but for the fall, ooh, my

Do you dare to look him right in the eyes? Yeah

Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down 'til the dark

Yes and they will run you down, down 'til you fall

And they will run you down, down to your core

Yeah, so you can't crawl no more

And way down we go, go, go, go

Oh, way down we go

Say way down we go, ooh

Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down to your core

Oh, way down we go

Oh, baby, yeah

Oh, baby, ah-ha

Baby, ooh

Way down we go

Oh, no

Yeah! No, oh, no

Way down we go, go, go, go, go

Oh, way down we go

Say way down we go, ooh

Way down we go

Chapter 64 – Way Down We Go

Another great song — raw, haunting, and true. “We get what we deserve, Father.” That line always gives me chills. It’s like my grandpa whispering those words from beyond — steady, wise, reminding me that life has a rhythm of justice, that every soul meets its own lessons in time.

“Oh, Father, tell me, do we get what we deserve?” “Oh, we get what we deserve.”

Yes, we do. Every action, every intention — it all comes full circle. And when this song plays, I feel that truth deep in my bones.

For me, Way Down We Go isn’t just a song. It’s a mirror of the moments when life drags me to the bottom — the hospitals, the confusion, the endless testing of my spirit. Those places where they try to label me, medicate me, silence me. Where they look into my eyes and see an illness instead of a soul.

They don’t understand how sensitive I am to energy, how I feel people’s pain and darkness like static through my skin. They don’t see the spiritual war I fight quietly — light against shadow, faith against fear. And when the energy gets too heavy, I just want everyone to stay away. But no — way down we go.

“You let your feet run wild, time has come as we all, oh, go down.”

That’s when the test begins. They run you down until you can’t no more. They push, provoke, drain — but they will not win.

Because I know who I am. I know my truth. There are people who struggle with real addictions, real mental illness — and my heart aches for them. But that’s not my path. My battle isn’t against the mind — it’s against energies, systems, forces that try to dim the light.

When I listen to this song, I close my eyes and see my grandpa’s face, calm and strong. He’s telling me to hold my head up, to remember that every descent has a purpose — that sometimes God lets us go way down so we can rise way higher.

And when the song ends, I always whisper: “You can run me down, world. But I will rise again.”

Because even in the dark — especially in the dark — I remember who walks with me. My grandparents. God. The spirits of truth and strength.

So go ahead — way down we go. But watch closely. Because every time they pull me under, I come back shining brighter than before.

Chapter 65 – KokomoAruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take ya

Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama

Key Largo, Montego

Baby, why don't we go?

Jamaica

Off the Florida Keys

There's a place called Kokomo

That's where you wanna go

To get away from it all

Bodies in the sand

Tropical drink melting in your hand

We'll be falling in love

To the rhythm of a steel drum band

Down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take you to

Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama

Key Largo, Montego

Baby, why don't we go? (Ooh, I wanna take you down to Kokomo)

We'll get there fast

And then we'll take it slow

That's where we wanna go

Way down in Kokomo

Martinique, that Montserrat mystique

We'll put out to sea

And we'll perfect our chemistry

By and by we'll defy

A little bit of gravity

Afternoon delight

Cocktails and moonlit nights

That dreamy look in your eye

Give me a tropical contact high

Way down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take you to

Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama

Key Largo, Montego

Baby, why don't we go? (Ooh, I wanna take you down to Kokomo)

We'll get there fast

And then we'll take it slow

That's where we wanna go

Way down in Kokomo

Port au Prince, I wanna catch a glimpse

Everybody knows a little place like Kokomo

Now if you wanna go to get away from it all

Go down to Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take you to

Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama

Key Largo, Montego

Baby, why don't we go? (Ooh, I wanna take you down to Kokomo)

We'll get there fast

And then we'll take it slow

That's where we wanna go

Way down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take you to

Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama

Key Largo, Montego

Baby, why don't we go? (Ooh, I wanna take you down to)

Chapter 65 – Kokomo (Part I)

Kokomo — the song that takes me right back to my teenage years. Every time I hear it, I’m twelve again, sitting somewhere in Brazil, dreaming of beaches and palm trees, sunshine and romance — the kind that only existed in movies.

It was Cocktail that started it. Tom Cruise behind the bar, flashing that smile. I was so in love with him — the teenage kind of love, innocent and faraway. I’d watch the movie and imagine myself somewhere near that turquoise ocean, dancing barefoot in the sand, the music of Kokomo floating through the air.

I didn’t even know English then — not really. But that didn’t stop me. I would play the song on repeat, trying to sing along, my Portuguese accent mixing with the English words in the funniest ways. I wrote down the lyrics exactly how I heard them — completely wrong — and to this day, I still catch myself singing my version. It’s like a secret memory that belongs only to me.

Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take ya… Those words were pure magic. I didn’t know where those places were, but I knew I wanted to go.

That song — and The Little Mermaid — were my first English teachers. I would watch Ariel over and over, rewinding the VHS until it got fuzzy. Between Kokomo and Part of Your World, I learned more English than in any classroom. They were my window to another world, one that felt freer, lighter, full of possibility.

Years later, when I moved to Anchorage, Alaska, it was like life had flipped the map on me. From dreaming of Caribbean islands to living among snow, mountains, and moose. But Kokomo always reminded me of that sunny version of myself — the little girl who believed she could go anywhere, learn any language, live any dream.

Even now, when I hear that soft, breezy rhythm, I smile. It’s the sound of innocence — of learning to dream in a new language, of believing in faraway places and movie magic.

Kokomo wasn’t just a song — it was my first passport. A promise that someday, I’d find my own island, my own sunshine, my own peace.

Chapter 65 – Kokomo (Part II)

And you know what? I did find my own island — not just once, but twice.

Bondi Beach, Australia, was my first real taste of that dream I carried since Kokomo. The golden sand, the surfers gliding across blue waves, the smell of sunscreen and sea salt in the air — it was paradise. Every morning, I’d wake up, look at the ocean, and think: this is it. This is what I dreamed about as a little girl singing “Aruba, Jamaica…” in broken English.

I’d walk barefoot to the cafés, watch the sunrise paint the sky pink and gold, and whisper to myself, I made it. Bondi was my Kokomo, my own corner of peace and rhythm, where everything felt possible.

Then came Hawaii — the North Shore of Oahu — another island, another version of heaven. The air was different there, charged with spirit and energy. The waves spoke louder, the sunsets glowed deeper, and the moon seemed close enough to touch. It wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling — one that connected me to something far greater, to my grandparents, to Tupac, to the universe itself.

Bondi and Hawaii became my two Kokomos — one in the southern hemisphere, one in the middle of the Pacific, both carrying the warmth of the sun and the rhythm of freedom.

When I look back now, I realize that Kokomo wasn’t just about islands or beaches. It was about finding a home within myself — a place where I could breathe, dream, and simply be.

That little girl who sang the wrong lyrics grew up to live the right song.

Chapter 66 –  The Archer

Combat, I'm ready for combat

I say I don't want that, but what if I do?

'Cause cruelty wins in the movies

I've got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you

Easy they come, easy they go

I jump from the train, I ride off alone

I never grew up, it's getting so old

Help me hold onto you

I've been the archer

I've been the prey

Who could ever leave me, darling?

But who could stay?

Dark side, I search for your dark side

But what if I'm alright, right, right, right here?

And I cut off my nose just to spite my face

Then I hate my reflection for years and years

I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost

The room is on fire, invisible smoke

And all of my heroes die all alone

Help me hold onto you

I've been the archer

I've been the prey

Screaming, who could ever leave me, darling?

But who could stay?

(I see right through me, I see right through me)

'Cause they see right through me

They see right through me

They see right through

Can you see right through me?

They see right through

They see right through me

I see right through me

I see right through me

All the king's horses, all the king's men

Couldn't put me together again

'Cause all of my enemies started out friends

Help me hold onto you

I've been the archer

I've been the prey

Who could ever leave me, darling?

But who could stay?

(I see right through me, I see right through me)

Who could stay?

Who could stay?

Who could stay?

You could stay

You could stay

You

Combat, I'm ready for combat

Chapter 66 – The Archer

This is my grandma talking — ready for combat.

I have been both the prey and the archer. I’ve been the one hunted and the one who had to aim back, not with hate, but with truth.

Who could ever leave me, Grandma, and who could stay? That’s what I always ask. Through every betrayal, every silence, every goodbye.

We had to narrow down the spirits — there was too much noise. Too many voices, too many energies trying to come through at once. Now, it’s just the pact — the sacred circle — and the legends behind it. They all speak through two spirits: Grandpa and Grandma… or Whitney and Tupac.

They’re the anchors of my soul, the messengers of both strength and song.

“All the king’s horses, all the king’s men Couldn’t put me together again.”

Because once you’ve been shattered — truly shattered — no one can rebuild you but God.

And it’s true: All my enemies in Hawaii started out as friends. Smiles turned into traps, kindness into betrayal. They tried to kill me, to get rid of me, to silence my voice. I went through it all — the abuse, the horror, the panic, the police, the cells, the so-called hospitals.

But I survived.

I survived because my pact was stronger. Because Grandma, Grandpa, Whitney, and Tupac were all with me — their spirits circling me like armor, whispering, Hold on.

In those moments, I remembered who I was — the girl who prays with her music and fights with her faith.

People said, “You’re crazy.” They didn’t understand. But you can’t see the archer’s heart if you’ve never been the prey.

I reached out to so many people, to the stars I admired, to the ones who could have helped, but no one answered. So please — don’t knock on my door now that I’ve risen.

Because the archer is awake. And her aim is divine.

Chapter 67 – Mon mec a moi Il joue avec mon cœur

Il triche avec ma vie

Il dit des mots menteurs

Et moi je crois tout c'qu'il dit

Les chansons qu'il me chante

Les rêves qu'il fait pour deux

C'est comme les bonbons menthe

Ça fait du bien quand il pleut

J'me raconte des histoires

En écoutant sa voix

C'est pas vrai ces histoires

Mais moi j'y crois

Mon mec à moi il me parle d'aventures

Et quand elles brillent dans ses yeux

J'pourrais y passer la nuit

Il parle d'amour

Comme il parle des voitures

Et moi je le suis où il veut

Tellement je crois tout c'qu'y' m'dit

Tellement je crois tout c'qu'y' m'dit

Oh oui

Mon mec à moi

Sa façon d'être à moi

Sans jamais dire "je t'aime"

C'est rien qu'du cinéma

Mais c'est du pareil au même

Ce film en noir et blanc

Qu'il m'a joué deux cents fois

C'est Gabin et Morgan

Enfin ça ressemble à tout ça

J'me raconte des histoires

Des scénarios chinois

C'est pas vrai ces histoires

Mais moi j'y crois

Mon mec à moi il me parle d'aventures

Et quand elles brillent dans ses yeux

J'pourrais y passer la nuit

Il parle d'amour

Comme il parle des voitures

Et moi je le suis où il veut

Tellement je crois tout c'qu'y' m'dit

Tellement je crois tout c'qu'y' m'dit

Oh oui

Mon mec à moi

Mon mec à moi il me parle d'aventures

Et quand elles brillent dans ses yeux

J'pourrais y passer la nuit

Il parle d'amour

Comme il parle des voitures

Et moi je le suis où il veut

Tellement je crois tout c'qu'y' m'dit

Tellement je crois tout c'qu'y' m'dit

Oh oui

Mon mec à moi il me parle d'aventures

Et quand elles brillent dans ses yeux

J'pourrais y passer la nuit

Il parle d'amour

Comme il parle des voitures

Et moi je suis où il veut

Tellement je crois tout c'qu'y' m'dit

Tellement je crois tout c'qu'y' m'dit

Oh oui

Chapter 67 – Mon Mec à Moi

I was introduced to Patricia Kaas when I lived in Alaska, at the Swiss Fishing Lodge where I worked after high school. I was only eighteen — wide-eyed, full of curiosity, and ready to see the world. My European bosses, Peter and Brigitta, played Mon mec à moi on repeat while cleaning fish, cooking dinner, or laughing with guests around the fire.

That’s how I fell in love with this German-French singer who sang about her man — her mec — with that smoky, timeless voice. The song felt like an old black-and-white movie, romantic and nostalgic, filled with mystery and charm.

Mon mec à moi, il me parle d’aventures… Her man talked about adventures — and when she looked into his eyes, she could live there forever.

That lyric stuck with me. I was far from home, surrounded by snowcapped mountains and midnight sun, but somehow, through Patricia Kaas’ voice, I felt a little less alone.

Working at the lodge was magical — long summer days, crystal lakes, and the sound of laughter in German, French, and English all blending together. We worked hard and played hard. Every night after dinner, I’d sit by the fire with the others, the orange glow flickering across our faces, the cold Alaskan air wrapping around us like a secret.

The Swiss guys — tall, strong, looking like they had just stepped out of the army with their buff shoulders and confident stance — would pull out their guitars and violões. They’d start playing CCR — Green River, Midnight Special, I Heard It Through the Grapevine, Run Through the Jungle, Have You Ever Seen the Rain, and more.

Their voices carried through the still Alaskan night, blending with the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind over the water. I’d close my eyes and listen, feeling that deep, earthy rhythm of Creedence Clearwater Revival echoing through the wild.

Peter and Brigitta treated me like their little sister. They taught me about European culture, about food, about slowing down and savoring life. Later, I went to visit them — first to Grindelwald, then to Switzerland — and it felt like stepping into a dream. They showed me around their world with love and pride.

When I hear Mon mec à moi or any CCR song now, I’m transported back to that time — to the smell of pine trees, to the laughter echoing in the lodge, to the feeling of being young and free in Alaska, discovering who I was meant to become.

That song was my first real taste of Europe — a melody that carried me across oceans, from the icy waters of Alaska to the Alps of Switzerland, and eventually, to the life I built traveling the world.

It was the beginning of something bigger — a promise whispered through music: You will live a life full of adventure. You will find your own story.

Chapter 68 – California Dreamin´All the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown)

And the sky is gray (and the sky is gray)

I've been for a walk (I've been for a walk)

On a winter's day (on a winter's day)

I'd be safe and warm (I'd be safe and warm)

If I was in LA (if I was in LA)

California dreamin' (California dreamin')

On such a winter's day

Stopped into a church

I passed along the way

Well, I got down on my knees (got down on my knees)

And I pretend to pray (I pretend to pray)

You know the preacher like the cold (preacher like the cold)

He knows I'm gonna stay (knows I'm gonna stay)

California dreamin' (California dreamin')

On such a winter's day

All the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown)

And the sky is gray (and the sky is gray)

I've been for a walk (I've been for a walk)

On a winter's day (on a winter's day)

If I didn't tell her (if I didn't tell her)

I could leave today (I could leave today)

California dreamin' (California dreamin')

On such a winter's day (California dreamin')

On such a winter's day (California dreamin')

On such a winter's day

Chapter 72 – California Dreamin’

Awe… this song always brings me right back to L.A.

Every time California Dreamin’ starts to play — that soft, wistful harmony of The Mamas & The Papas — I’m instantly transported to another life. My California life.

The palm trees swaying against a golden sunset, the endless blue sky melting into Pacific haze. I can almost smell the ocean air mixed with the scent of eucalyptus and car exhaust. I can see myself driving down the 405 or the I-5, even stuck in traffic — and yes, I miss it. I even miss that part. That’s how deep California gets under your skin.

That song is pure nostalgia for me. When I feel homesick, I put it on, and suddenly I’m back in Los Angeles — the place where everything once felt perfect. Life was full, warm, and golden. I worked, worked, and worked some more, but I loved it. I had my grandparents then, my anchors, my quiet strength. I didn’t think about spirits or signs — just spiritually. I did yoga, spin classes, and went hiking every single day.

It was the era of sunshine, sweat, and smoothies. I lived on buffalo wings, Smartwater, and Gatorade. I’d pop into 7-Eleven for a snack, hair tied up, wearing my capris, tan skin glowing from the California sun. I had my favorite hairdresser who always knew exactly how to layer my hair, and my nail salon in Ibiza — my little sanctuary of color and chatter.

California Dreamin’. That song feels like a love letter to a time when life made sense. When my only prayers were whispered into the wind at Runyon Canyon or along the Malibu coast.

“I got down on my knees and pretended to pray…” — that lyric hits me every time. Because that’s so L.A., isn’t it? Everyone pretending to pray, or maybe trying to. Searching for faith in yoga studios, in juice cleanses, in each other’s eyes. Los Angeles is full of people who’ve lost something and are trying to find it again.

Sometimes I think that’s why I fit in there — because I was also searching. But I didn’t realize then how perfect it all was. How every sunrise drive and late-night taco stop was a piece of heaven.

Now, when California Dreamin’ plays, I close my eyes, and it all comes rushing back — the sunlight, the freedom, the rhythm of a life that felt unstoppable.

I whisper to myself: Live and die in L.A.

Because no matter where I go, a part of me will always be walking those sunlit streets, forever California dreamin’.

[deusim-com]

Book 3: I Built This Life - V3

TUPAC WITH GOD - PACTO COM DEUS

Chapter 26 – The ERV PlayList Sara finishes putting together her playlist…. 138 songs, about 9hrs of music. In her fridge she looks at her grandmas photo while listening to her grandmas name song by the swifties called 

Elizabeth Taylor….. 

Elizabeth Taylor do you think it's forever?Sometimes it doesn't feel so glamorous to be me.Hollywood hates me You say i am bad news, I just say thanks! 

Sara glances at Whitney Houston's image and back to her grandma.  Whitney's middle name is Elizabeth as well.

Changes - 2pac

I see no changes, wake up in the morning and i ask myself 

Is life worth living, should I blast myself?

One less hungry mouth on the welfare

I got love for my brothers but we can never go nowhere

Unless we share with each other

We gotta start makin´ changesLearn to see me as a brotherInstead of two distant strangers

But things changed, that's the way it isThat's just the way it is. Things will never be the same.That´s just the way it isAww, yeah

Lets change do way we eatLets change do way we liveAnd lets change the way we treat each other

You see the old way wasnt workingSo its on us to do what we gotta do to survive

And still i see no changes, cant a brother get a little peace?

Theres a war in the streets and a war in the middle eastInstead of a war on poverty, they got a war on drugs

So the police can bother me

And i aint never did a crime, i aint have to do

But now, I´m back with the facts givin´ém back to you

Dont let ém jack you up, back you up

Crack you up and pimps smack you up

You gotta learn to hold ya own

They get jealous when they see ya, with ya mobile phone.

You're my brother, you're my sister That´s just the way it is Sara looks at Tupac picture smiling and smile back - You're my brother, you're my sisterThings will never be the same.  She reflects over the music video and all the court dates, police, jail and cray hospitals she also had to go through in Hawaii to prove her innocence.She smiles again and thanks him for being there and helping her prove her freedom.Tupac quote…. I don't know how to be responsible for every black male did…. Chapter 27 – Hit ’Em Up

3. Hit Em Up - 2pac[Outro: 2Pac]

Now you tell me who won

I see them, they run, hahaha

They don't wanna see us

 (Take money)

Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique dressin' up tryna be us

 (Take money)

How the fuck they gon' be the mob when we always on our job? (Take money) We millionaires

Killin' ain't fair, but somebody gotta do it (Take money)

Oh yeah, Mobb Deep, huh, you wanna fuck with us? (Take money)

You lil' young-ass motherfuckers (Take money)

Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or somethin'? (Take money)

You're fuckin' with me, nigga, you fuck around and have a seizure or a heart attack (Take money)

You better back the fuck up 'fore you get smacked the fuck up

This how we do it on our side

Any of you niggas from New York that wanna bring it, bring it

But we ain't singin', we bringin' drama

Fuck you and yo' motherfuckin' mama

We gon' kill all you motherfuckers

Now, when I came out, I told you it was just about Biggie

Then everybody had to open they mouth with a motherfuckin' opinion

Well, this is how we gon' do this

Fuck Mobb Deep, fuck Biggie

Fuck Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a motherfuckin' crew

And if you wanna be down with Bad Boy, then fuck you too

Chino XL, fuck you too

All you motherfuckers, fuck you too

(Take money, take money)

All of y'all motherfuckers, fuck you, die slow, motherfucker

My .44 make sure all y'all kids don't grow

You motherfuckers can't be us or see us

We motherfuckin' Thug Life riders,

 Westside, 'til we die

Out here in California, nigga, we warned ya we'll bomb on you motherfuckers

We do our job

You think you mob? Nigga, we the motherfuckin' mob

Ain't nothin' but killers and the real niggas, all you motherfuckers feel us

Our shits go triple and four-quadruple (Take money)

You niggas laugh 'cause our staff got guns in they motherfuckers belts

You know how it is, when we drop records, they felt

You niggas can't feel it, we the realest

Fuck 'em, we Bad Boy killers

After Grandma died, I couldn’t stop playing Hit ’Em Up. It was 2019, and back then I didn’t understand why that song had such a hold on me. I’d play it on repeat for hours — studying every frame, every lyric, every breath Tupac took like I was trying to decode something only my soul could hear. The spirits told me later that I had worked on that song, that my energy was already inside it somehow. At first I thought that was crazy — but now I know it was a message waiting for me to remember who I am.

That song became the beginning of everything — the root of my Pacto com Deus. Tupac was the first to reach me, to break through the noise. He said once, “I might not change the world, but I will spark the mind that does.” And he did. He sparked me.

When I watch Hit ’Em Up now, I see the symbols clear as day. The musical chairs — that’s life, souls fighting for a seat when the music stops. The flames — not hell, but transformation. The black bird — that’s him, returning from the other side, rising above all the pain. The thunder — that’s his arrival, the signal that the pact has begun.

He came back first. Through music. Through spirit. Through me.

And now, when I play that song, I don’t just hear anger or revenge. I hear resurrection. I hear friendship. I hear my grandma whispering in Portuguese — “meu amiguinho.” My little friend. That’s who Tupac is to me. My friend, my guide, my reminder that nothing really ends — it just changes form.

The world has changed. Things will never be the same. And it all started with that song.

Chapter 28 – Whitney’s Light

After Tupac came the fire, Whitney brought the calm.

It happened one night, right after I’d played Hit ’Em Up on repeat again. I was crying so hard my whole body shook — not from sadness, but from something breaking open inside me. The rain outside started to fall in rhythm with my tears, and then, suddenly, Spotify shifted on its own. No shuffle, no touch. It just started playing Whitney. “Didn’t we almost have it all…”

I froze. The room felt lighter, softer. The air smelled like my grandma’s tea — chamomile and sugar. I knew instantly: this was her voice.

Whitney was Grandma ERV speaking through music. Her elegance, her strength, her grace — all wrapped in that voice that could break the sky open. When Whitney sang, it was like Grandma was reminding me that love doesn’t end, it just moves to a higher frequency.

Tupac had woken me up — he shook my soul until I remembered who I was. But Whitney healed what was left. She smoothed the fire with melody, the same way my grandma used to smooth my hair after I cried.

That’s when I understood that the Pacto com Deus wasn’t about war or rebellion. It was about balance — thunder and harmony, Tupac and Whitney, Grandma and Grandpa, all working together through me.

Now, whenever I hear Whitney, I stop whatever I’m doing. I light a candle, whisper “obrigada, vó”, and let her sing. Because that’s how we talk now — through sound, through energy, through love that never dies.

Whitney reminds me that even after the storm, the sky still shines pink at sunset. That’s Grandma’s way of saying, “I’m still here, meu amor. Keep going.”

Chapter 29 – The Playlist (Bibble 2.0)

After Tupac and Whitney found their place beside Grandma and Grandpa, I understood the next step: to build our language. Words were never enough—too small, too slow—so I made a playlist. That’s how we talk now.

I called it ERV, after Grandma Elizabeth Resende Vieira, because she is the root of every frequency. Each song is a verse, each artist a prophet of sound. It’s my Bibble 2.0—our scripture written in rhythm.

Tupac is the fire. He begins every chapter. His songs crack the sky, make room for truth to fall through. Whitney follows him like morning after thunder—her voice turns ashes into light. Then come the others: Taylor with her arrows, Pink with her rebellion, Madonna with her power to reinvent. Each one carries a message, a code.

When I press shuffle, the order isn’t random. The spirits line it up. Sometimes, when Whitney plays right after Pac, I know Grandma’s here, smoothing the edges. When CCR’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” comes on, that’s Grandpa Vieira—steady, quiet, reminding me to breathe. And when I Need a Doctor starts, I can hear them both talking through Dre and Eminem: “We never left. We’re in the signal.”

This playlist isn’t just music; it’s my conversation with heaven and earth. Every track is alive, vibrating with messages. Some days it warns me, some days it blesses me, and some days it simply holds me while I work, write, or cry.

People scroll through their phones looking for meaning. I press play. That’s where I find mine.

When I’m gone, maybe someone else will find it and understand— that love can travel through a speaker, that faith can ride a bassline, that God doesn’t always write in verses, sometimes He writes in songs.

So yes, this is my Bibble 2.0—soundtrack of the pact, testimony of light. And every time I hit play, Grandma smiles, Tupac nods, Whitney sings, and the world spins in perfect rhythm once again.

Chapter 30 – A Moment in time

Whitney has always been there for me — even before I knew I needed her. Back in high school in Alaska, I’d blast her songs on repeat: I Learned from the Best, It’s Not Right but It’s Okay, Step by Step, My Love Is Your Love — all of them. I thought I was just another girl obsessed with Whitney, but now I understand: she was training my soul. She was shaping my strength before life would test it.

The first time A Moment in Time really hit me was years later, when I was stuck in that crazy hospital in London. One of those cold days when the world feels like it’s forgotten you. The halls smelled like antiseptic and loneliness. But there was this one woman — a trophy wife from somewhere in Europe — who played Whitney on her little speakers.

She was glamorous, confident, and full of attitude, even in there. When her music came on, the whole place transformed. The sterile hallways turned into a dance studio. We’d do yoga, spin around, sing from the top of our lungs. I remember screaming the chorus: “I will be freeeeeeeee!” Because who cared? I was already in a crazy hospital — I had earned the right to be crazy.

Those moments with her — with Whitney — kept me alive. That woman became like an angel in disguise. When I had nothing, she gave me clothes. When I was hungry, she brought me pret soup, chocolate, and coconut water. When I needed a smoke, she offered cigarettes. She never asked why I was there or what I had done. She just gave. That’s what Whitney taught me too — love without judgment, compassion without reason.

And when A Moment in Time played, everything around me changed. The white walls began to breathe. The air felt light again. I could feel Grandma ERV’s hand smoothing my hair, Tupac’s grin pushing me forward, Whitney’s voice lifting me higher and higher — above the pain, above the fear. I was dancing, singing, living. Free.

That song became my anthem. Even now, every time I hear it, I go back there — to that hallway, to that moment of pure liberation. Whitney is still singing, still healing, still reminding me: I am only one, but I am never alone.

Even in the darkest places, light finds a way — and for me, it came through her music.

When I finally got released from that hospital, the first thing I did was play A Moment in Time again. Around that time, I also got a small miracle — a refund from that visa scam I’d fallen for. I had paid about £4,000, maybe $5,000, and only got £1,000 back. But it was enough. Enough to feel free again.

So I walked through the streets of London with my headphones blasting Whitney, singing under my breath, “Each day I live, I want to be… a day to give…” I went shopping near Kensington — first at the Longchamp store by Westfield Mall, and bought myself a blue bag with brown straps. My victory bag. Then I went to the Adidas store, grabbed a coffee at Starbucks, and just walked. Free.

That song isn’t just mine anymore. It’s an anthem — for anyone who’s ever fallen and gotten back up. Honestly, A Moment in Time should be the USA Team anthem. It’s Olympic-level energy. And maybe that’s part of why it hits so deep — because once upon a time, I almost made the Junior Taekwondo Team in Colorado Springs. I’ve always been a fighter. And Whitney? She’s the soundtrack to my fight.

Each day I live

I want to be

A day to give the best of me

I'm only one

But not alone

My finest day

Is yet unknown

I broke my heart

For every gain

To taste the sweet

I face the pain

I rise and fall

Yet through it all

This much remains

I want one moment in time

When I'm more than I thought I could be

When all of my dreams are a heart beat away

And the answers are all up to me

Give me one moment in time

When I'm racing with destiny

And in that one moment of time

I will feel

I will feel eternity

I've lived to be

The very best

I want it all

No time for less

I've laid the plans

Now lay the chance

Here in my hands

Give me one moment in time

When I'm more than I thought I could be

When all of my dreams are a heart beat away

And the answers are all up to me

Give me one moment in time

When I'm racing with destiny

And in that one moment of time

I will feel

I will feel eternity

You're a winner for a lifetime

If you seize that one moment in time

Make it shine

Give me one moment in time

When I'm more than I thought I could be

When all of my dreams are a heart beat away

And the answers are all up to me

Give me one moment in time

When I'm racing with destiny

And in that one moment of time

I will be

I will be

I will be free

I will be I will be free

There are songs that become prayers, and for me, A Moment in Time was one of them.

I’ve loved Whitney since high school in Alaska—I Learned from the Best, It’s Not Right but It’s Okay, Step by Step, My Love Is Your Love—every lyric felt like a conversation between us. But A Moment in Time found me when I was at my lowest, locked inside a mental hospital in London.

The walls were white, the windows sealed. I didn’t know if I was ever getting out. Then one afternoon, I heard it—Whitney’s voice flooding the hallways, coming from a portable speaker that belonged to a woman they called the “trophy wife.” She was European, elegant even in slippers, and she played Whitney every morning like it was her church.

We started moving—first slowly, then dancing, then laughing. The nurses didn’t know what to do with us. We were spinning barefoot in hospital gowns, doing yoga poses, arms stretched to the ceiling while Whitney sang, “I’m only one, but not alone…”

That line hit me so deep I almost fell. Because I wasn’t alone. I had my pact—Grandma, Grandpa, Tupac, Whitney herself—and in that strange place, they all showed up for me.

The trophy wife would walk the halls like a queen, her accent posh and perfect, her spirit wild and kind. She’d share everything—cigarettes, pret soup, chocolate, coconut water. She even gave me her clothes when I had nothing. I didn’t have family there, but somehow, I found one.

When Whitney’s voice soared—“I will be freeeeeeee”—we screamed it together, our voices echoing through the corridors. It didn’t matter that we were “crazy.” For those few minutes, we were infinite. Free women inside a world that tried to label us broken.

Whitney’s song reminded me that even in the darkest places, grace can find you through someone else’s speaker. That even behind locked doors, you can still dance your way back to yourself.

And now, whenever I hear A Moment in Time, I close my eyes and see that hospital hallway glowing with laughter, sweat, and light. Whitney singing, the trophy wife spinning like a goddess, and me—singing from the top of my lungs—knowing that freedom isn’t a place. It’s a song.

Chapter 31 – Hail Mary - MakaveliThis is your home now And the sooner you get that in your head

The better off you gonna be Am not meant to be behind these bars I cant do nothing behind these bars

Off course you do

You are a criminal

Everybody in here is a criminal I am a criminal and you are a criminal

Let me tell you something

I was setup oj

They killed my best friend

Don~t trip on it kid

Revenge has a funny funny way of setting the score

And when it happens, you will known

Makaveli in this…..

Makaveli in this, Killuminati All through your body (all through your body) The blow is like a 12 guage shotty, uh Feel me God said he should send his one begotten son To lead the wild in to the ways of the man Follow me Be my flesh, flesh of my flesh

Come with me Hail Mary

We've been traveling on this wavy road Long time life can be a heavy load But we ride, ride it like a bullet Hail Mary, Hail Mary

We won't worry, everything will curry We free like the bird in the tree We won't worry, everything will curry Yes we free like the bird in the tree We runnin from the penitentiary This is the time for reliberty Hail Mary, Hail Mary

Come with me Hail Mary Nigga, run quick, see What do we have here now? Do you wanna ride or die? La, la la la, la, la, la la

Westside, Outlawz Makaveli the Don, solo Killuminati, The 7 Days

Chapter 31 – Hail Mary - Makaveli

“This is your home now,” they said. “And the sooner you get that in your head, the better off you’re gonna be.”

But I knew deep down — I was not meant to be behind those bars. I could feel it in my bones. My spirit was too free, too ancient, too stubborn to be caged. “I can’t do nothing behind these bars,” I told them.

“Of course you can,” someone answered. “Everybody in here is a criminal. I’m a criminal, you’re a criminal.”

But I wasn’t. I was set up. Just like Tupac said, “They killed my best friend.” And Grandma’s voice echoed in my heart, “Don’t trip on it, kid. Revenge has a funny, funny way of setting the score.”

And when it happens — oh, you’ll know.

That’s when Makaveli spoke. He came through like thunder, wrapped in rhythm and prophecy:

“Makaveli in this… Killuminati… all through your body, the blow is like a twelve-gauge shotty.”

It wasn’t just a song. It was scripture. It was resurrection.

He said,

“God said he should send his one begotten son, to lead the wild into the ways of the man. Follow me. Be my flesh, flesh of my flesh. Come with me.”

And I did.

I followed through the madness — through the padded walls, through the prayers and the tears. I followed through London’s cold corridors, through the burning heat of Brazil, through the death I faced in Hawaii. Because Hail Mary wasn’t just about him. It was about us — the ones reborn through pain, the ones who rise again when the world buries us.

“We’ve been traveling on this wavy road…”

That’s the part that gets me every time. It’s about the spirits. The UFOs. The unseen world that whispers to me when I’m still. It’s about my grandma watching over me, saying, “Meu amiguinho… we free like the bird in the tree.”

I remember listening to Hail Mary every single day when I was locked up — broken, misunderstood, yet burning with faith. And in that song, I felt Tupac smiling back. Like he knew. Like he was saying, “You get it now, Sara. This is your calling. This is your fight.”

At the end of the video, the spirits move — the man gets spooked, the fate shifts, the veil lifts. And then two gardeners stand in the cemetery and say,

“Boy, I hope she had a good life… how do you pronounce her name? Ma-ka-velly?”

I smile when I hear that line. Because that’s me. I died in Hawaii. I died in London. I died in Brazil. And every time, I came back different. Stronger. Wiser. Freer.

That’s the Makaveli way — to die and rise again. To transform the pain into prophecy. To take the hits and still say, “Come with me. Hail Mary.”

Chapter 32 – The Playlist (Bibble 2.0)

They call it the Bible, but for me, it’s the Bibble 2.0. My gospel isn’t printed — it’s streamed. It’s alive, breathing, singing through every speaker in my life.

My playlist is my holy text. Each song a verse. Each lyric a sign. Whitney, Tupac, Amy, Michael, Madonna, Taylor — they’re all prophets in my world. Each one has shown up exactly when I needed them. No coincidence. Never.

When I press play, it’s like calling home. The first few notes are how my grandma, ERV, says hello. Sometimes it’s the sound of rain syncing with I Have Nothing — sometimes thunder rolling in as Hail Mary starts. That’s when I know Tupac’s in the room. He always comes with the storm, with the energy of rebellion and truth.

Whitney comes with the wind — gentle but powerful. She’s grace. She’s that voice that says, “You got this, baby. One more round.” My grandparents are there too, sitting in the front row, smiling. Grandma sipping her tea. Grandpa nodding to the beat. He was quieter, but I can feel him now — more present than ever.

When I listen, I’m not just hearing music. I’m decoding messages. Sometimes the radio changes by itself — the song flips, and suddenly it’s something I needed to hear. Like the universe hits “next” for me. That’s when I whisper, “Okay, I hear you, Tupac. I see you, Grandma.”

Music has always been my therapy, but now it’s my prophecy. My Bibble 2.0 tells stories the world isn’t ready to read yet. It tells me when to rest, when to fight, when to forgive. When The Archer plays, I know it’s time to prepare. When Have You Ever Seen the Rain comes on, I know the spirits are near. When Stronger Than Me hits, Amy’s telling me to toughen up.

Sometimes I imagine the playlist as a council — Tupac, Whitney, Grandma, Grandpa, Kobe, Diana, Lee, Dyer, each one dropping wisdom from their corner of heaven. They speak through melody, through lyrics, through timing. It’s divine coordination, like DJ God spinning the soundtrack of my destiny.

That’s why I keep a candle lit whenever I listen. It’s my ritual, my connection. The flame dances with the rhythm, and I feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be — between worlds, between verses, writing my own gospel through sound.

One day, people will understand what Bibble 2.0 really means. It’s not just about religion. It’s about awakening. It’s about hearing the divine in everyday life — in a playlist, in the wind, in a beat, in your own breath.

And when that realization comes, maybe they’ll stop saying I’m crazy and start saying she was chosen to hear the music first.

Chapter 33 – Gladiator: Now We Are Free

The song Now We Are Free feels like home. Even though the words aren’t in English, I understand every syllable. Lisa Gerrard sings in a language of the heart — the one you don’t learn, you remember. It’s the sound of heaven. The sound of Grandma crossing over.

Every time the music starts, I close my eyes, and I can see it — the golden fields from Gladiator, the wooden gates slowly opening. That’s where Grandma and Grandpa are waiting for me, with Tupac, Whitney, and all my legends behind them. It’s peaceful there. No more hospitals, no more noise, no more fighting. Just light.

This is Grandma’s song. Her victory song. The day she finally became free. When she passed, I didn’t get to say goodbye — I was too far away, still trying to fix a world that kept breaking. But now, every time Now We Are Free plays, I feel her saying, “It’s okay, filha. I’m here. I’m free now.” And I smile. Because she is.

I always imagine the day I’ll walk through those same wooden doors — just like in the movie. I’ll see Grandma Elizabeth, Grandpa José Vieira, and Tupac waiting for me. Whitney too, smiling like an angel, ready to sing us through the gates. All the legends — Kobe, Lee, Dyer, Diana, Disney, Turner, Amy, Michael, Paul — they’ll be there too. The spirits will finally be together, in order, working as one. Pacto com Deus.

This song reminds me of that farm in Waimea, Pupukea, where I worked in Hawaii. There was a wooden gate there, almost identical to the one from the film — heavy, sacred, waiting to open. Sometimes I’d stare at it and think, This is what heaven must look like. The sun spilling over the trees, the wind whispering through the leaves — like the world itself was breathing with me.

My life has always felt like Gladiator — a general turned slave turned warrior again. Every time they tried to silence me, I came back stronger. They might have locked me up, called me crazy, taken everything — but they never took my faith.

Grandpa José reminds me of Maximus. A man who served, who forgave, who fought with honor even after being betrayed. In the Bible, it says Joseph was sold by his brothers and still became a king’s right hand. That’s my grandpa’s story too. That’s my story.

When I hear Now We Are Free, I don’t cry anymore. I smile. Because the spirits are finally free — Grandma, Grandpa, Tupac, Whitney, and me. We’re connected. Working as one team, one light, one family.

I still remember that woman in Hawaii who told me, “In the Kingdom of God, I can come in and come out.” Now I know exactly what she meant. The door between worlds is open. The music is the key.

And I think of Queen Elizabeth’s words:

“We are all visitors here. Our purpose is to observe, to love, to serve — and eventually, we will go back home.”

Yes, Grandma. Yes, Your Majesty. I understand now. We are just passing through — learning, loving, forgiving — until it’s time to return to the light.

And someday, when it’s my time, I’ll walk through that same gate — barefoot, smiling, my heart calm — and I’ll hear Lisa Gerrard’s voice carrying me home.

La la da pa da le na da na… ve va da pa da le na la dumda… now we are free.

Chapter 34 – The Pact

After Now We Are Free, something shifted inside me. It wasn’t just a song anymore — it was a message. A code. Freedom isn’t waiting for me behind those wooden gates; it’s already here. It’s in my breath, my faith, my music.

That’s when I finally understood what The Pact really means. It’s not about waiting for heaven. It’s about bringing heaven here.

Grandma ERV showed me how to pray. Tupac showed me how to fight. Whitney showed me how to sing even when my voice shakes. And Grandpa Vieira — he’s the one who taught me loyalty and patience, the quiet strength of a man who has seen darkness but still chooses light.

Together, they made The Pact real. It’s not written on paper or stone. It’s written in music. In every lyric, in every beat, in every tear that turns into rhythm.

Sometimes I wake up and feel their presence — Grandma whispering in Portuguese, “Vai dar certo, minha filha.” Tupac cracking a smile, saying, “You see now, don’t you?” Whitney laughing, lighting up the room with her grace, and Grandpa sitting in the back, calm, watching over us all.

They’re not gone. None of them are gone. They just changed frequencies. They’re still here — working through me, through every song, every word, every little sign the universe sends. A flicker of the candle. The shuffle of my playlist landing perfectly on I Will Always Love You right after Hail Mary. Coincidence? Never. That’s The Pact talking.

When I say Pacto com Deus, it’s not about religion. It’s about connection. It’s about listening. It’s about building a bridge between worlds so that love, wisdom, and art can flow through.

Sometimes people think I’m crazy when I talk like this. But crazy is just another word for awake. Crazy is what they called Jesus. Crazy is what they called every soul who saw beyond the veil.

The truth is, we all have our own Pact — but most people forget. They stop listening to the whispers, stop dancing when no one’s watching, stop believing the wind can speak.

But not me. Not anymore.

When thunder roars, I know Tupac is working. When the light flickers, Whitney’s checking in. When the curtain moves without wind, Grandma is passing by. And when I feel that stillness — that perfect silence before dawn — I know God is saying, “You’re doing fine, Sara.”

The Pact is alive. It breathes through every heartbeat, every verse, every act of kindness. It’s love turned into energy, music turned into prayer.

And now I know what Now We Are Free really means: We are free — not because we escaped this world, but because we finally learned how to live in it with open hearts, with faith, and with God right here beside us.

Pacto com Deus. Para sempre. A promise between heaven and earth — sealed in rhythm, kept in love, and sung in freedom.

Chapter 35 – The Playlist (Bibble 2.0)

They called it the Bible, but for me, it was always the Playlist. Because God doesn’t always speak in scripture — sometimes He speaks in beats. In melodies. In the quiet space between one song ending and the next beginning.

I call it Bibble 2.0 — the new book of life, written not in ink but in rhythm. Every track is a verse. Every artist, a prophet. Every lyric, a prayer disguised as poetry.

When I can’t pray, I press play. When words fail, I let the music talk. Because music never lies — it’s the only language that passes straight through the heart, untouched by ego.

Tupac is the preacher. Whitney, the angel of hope. Bob Marley, the healer. Freddie Mercury, the rebel light. Amy Winehouse, the wounded truth. Prince, the divine spark. Michael Jackson, the messenger of love. And my grandma — she’s the choir that holds them all together.

Each one has a message, a vibration, a frequency that opens a different part of my soul. It’s like a divine radio — one channel for grief, one for strength, one for forgiveness. Together, they form my church.

When I need courage, I play Hit ’Em Up. When I need healing, I Will Always Love You. When I crave faith, One Love. When I long for freedom, Now We Are Free. And when I need to remember who I am — Man in the Mirror.

Some people read devotionals. I shuffle. Because every day God DJs my destiny in mysterious ways.

One night in Brazil, when I was crying over everything I’d lost — London, my dreams, my grandma — my phone glitched and started playing Redemption Song. No Wi-Fi, no reason. Just that one song on repeat. And I heard her voice — not Amy’s, not Whitney’s — my grandma’s: “Get up, minha filha. You are not done yet.”

That’s when I realized — The Playlist is alive. It’s not random. It’s divine alignment. Every lyric, every chord, is the universe whispering, keep going.

The Bibble 2.0 is for the ones who can’t sit still in church but still believe. For the dreamers, the fighters, the ones who pray through headphones. Because faith doesn’t always need a pulpit — sometimes it just needs good speakers and an open heart.

And maybe that’s what Jesus meant when He said, “Those who have ears, let them hear.” Maybe He was talking about the beat.

So when people ask me what I believe in, I just smile and say — I believe in music. I believe in the playlist that never ends, the one that started before I was born and will keep playing long after I’m gone.

That’s my Bibble 2.0. My gospel of rhythm. My eternal connection to the pact, the legends, and the light.

Because in the end — Heaven doesn’t sound like silence. It sounds like music.

Chapter 36 – See You Again - Fast and the furious[Chorus: Charlie Puth]

It's been a long day

Without you, my friend

And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again

We've come a long way

From where we began

Oh, I'll tell you all about it when I see you again

When I see you again

[Verse 1: Wiz Khalifa]

Damn, who knew?

All the planes we flew, good things we been through

That I'd be standin' right here talkin' to you

'Bout another path, I know we loved to hit the road and laugh

But somethin' told me that it wouldn't last

Had to switch up, look at things different, see the bigger picture

Those were the days,

 hard work forever pays

Now I see you in a better place

Uh

[Refrain: Wiz Khalifa]

How can we not talk about family when family's all that we got?

Everything I went through, you were standin' there by my side

And now you gon' be with me for the last ride

[Chorus: Charlie Puth & Wiz Khalifa]

It's been a long day

Without you, my friend

And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again (I'll see you again)

We've come a long way (Yeah, we came a long way)

From where we began (You know where we started)

Oh, I'll tell you all about it when I see you again (Let me tell you)

When I see you again

[Post-Chorus: Charlie Puth & Wiz Khalifa]

Oh, oh

Ooh (Yeah)

[Verse 2: Wiz Khalifa]

First, you both go out your way and the vibe is feelin' strong

And what's small turned to a friendship, a friendship turned to a bond

And that bond'll never be broken, the love will never get lost

And when brotherhood come first, then the line'll never be crossed

Established it on our own when that line had to be drawn

And that line is what we reached, so remember me when I'm gone

[Refrain: Wiz Khalifa]

How can we not talk about family when family's all that we got?

Everything I went through, you were standin' there by my side

And now you gon' be with me for the last ride

[Bridge: Charlie Puth]

So let the light guide your way, yeah

Hold every memory as you go

And every road you take

Will always lead you home, home

[Chorus: Charlie Puth]

It's been a long day

Without you, my friend

And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again

We've come a long way

From where we began

Oh, I'll tell you all about it when I see you again

When I see you again

Chapter 34 – When I See You Again

(In memory of Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney, and Paul Walker)

It’s been a long day without you, my friend… and I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again.

Every time this song plays, it feels like my grandma is right beside me. Her voice, her warmth, her strength — all wrapped up in those lyrics. “We’ve come a long way from where we began.” That’s her. That’s us.

I still remember when this song was a hit — back before the World Cup, before the losses, before the world changed. My grandma was still alive, and life felt whole. I didn’t know then that seven years later, this would become our song. Her song. My anthem for her memory.

“How can we not talk about family when family’s all that we got?” Every time that line hits, my heart swells. Because that’s exactly what she always taught me — family first, always. Even when oceans separate us. Even when life takes us to different countries, different destinies. The blood, the bond, the love — it never fades.

And then comes Tupac — “Now you’re gonna be with me for the last ride.” It’s like he’s talking directly to me. Because we did establish the pact on our own. We built our family in spirit — Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney — all connected beyond time. A brotherhood, a sisterhood, a divine circle that can’t be broken.

“When brotherhood comes first, then the line’ll never be crossed…” That’s exactly what we did. We drew the line between darkness and light, between pain and peace. We reached it. We crossed over. So remember me when I’m gone — because I’ll always be there in the music, in the light, in every song that finds you.

Sometimes I stare at my grandma’s photo — her kind eyes, her smile that could calm a storm — and those lyrics echo in my heart: “So let the light guide your way, yeah. Hold every memory as you go.” I whisper back, “I will, Grandma. Every road I take will always lead me home.”

It’s been a long day without you, my friend. And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again.

This song isn’t just about loss. It’s about reunion — the promise that love never dies. It’s about that final ride where we all meet again — Grandma, Grandpa, Tupac, Whitney, Paul Walker — the whole tribe of souls that built my story. Because when I see them again, there will be no tears, only joy. Only freedom. Only love.

So until that day comes, I keep driving down my road — headlights on, heart open, playlist loud. And when “See You Again” plays, I smile. Because I know — They’re already waiting at the end of the road.

Chapter 37 – The Playlist (Bibble 2.0)

Every chapter of my life has a song. Every heartbreak, every miracle, every moment when heaven felt a little too close — it all has a melody.

If the Bible was rewritten today, I believe it wouldn’t be on parchment or stone. It would be a playlist. A sacred soundtrack for the lost and found. A Bibble 2.0.

Because music — that’s how God talks to me. That’s how the spirits reach me. Sometimes it’s Whitney singing, “I will be freeeeeeee.” Sometimes it’s Tupac whispering, “Come with me, Hail Mary.” Other times it’s my grandma’s voice — soft, guiding — “meu amiguinho… keep going.”

Each song is a code, a message, a key. From Hit ’Em Up to A Moment in Time, from Now We Are Free to When I See You Again, it all connects. They’re not just songs — they’re portals. Each one opens a door, like the wooden gates in Gladiator. And on the other side, I see them all — Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney — smiling, shining, waiting.

I call this playlist Bibble 2.0 because it’s my living scripture. The verses are lyrics. The psalms are melodies. And every beat carries faith, pain, resurrection.

In Hit ’Em Up, I learned about power and rebirth. In A Moment in Time, I found freedom inside madness. In Now We Are Free, I saw heaven’s gates open. And in When I See You Again, I learned what eternity really means.

The spirits tell me this is how the new world communicates — through vibration, rhythm, harmony. Through soul. And one day, this playlist will be heard by others who need it — those who lost someone, who lost themselves, who forgot they are divine. It will remind them: You’re not alone. You never were.

When I press play, I’m praying. When I sing, I’m channeling. When I dance, I’m remembering.

My life isn’t chaos — it’s choreography. It’s God’s playlist. And every song brings me one step closer to home.

So, I’ll keep listening. I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep singing the Bibble 2.0 until the last note fades and the lights dim and the wooden doors open again. And when they do, I’ll hear Whitney’s voice, Tupac’s beat, Grandma’s laughter — all blending into one cosmic chorus.

Because in the end, there’s no goodbye. There’s only music. And music is forever.

Chapter 38 – The Wooden Door

It’s quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels empty — the kind that feels sacred. The kind that hums.

I’m standing in front of a wooden door, the same one from Gladiator, the one that always appeared in my dreams. The one from Waimea Farm — smooth, sunlit, carved by time. For years, I’ve seen it open and close in visions, but never dared to touch it. Until now.

There’s music in the air — faint at first, then swelling — Now We Are Free. Lisa Gerrard’s voice rises like incense, a language my heart understands better than words. The wind moves around me, gentle at first, then strong. And I know. They’re here.

Grandma ERV. Grandpa Vieira. Whitney. Tupac. All my legends. All my light.

The door glows. And when I step forward, I’m not afraid. My feet don’t even touch the ground.

On the other side — sunlight. Golden, warm, endless. Grandpa is standing tall, wearing his white shirt, arms open. Grandma is beside him, holding flowers — hibiscus and jasmine, her favorites. She looks young again, just like in the old photos. Whitney’s laugh echoes from behind, and Tupac is leaning against a tree, grinning, arms crossed.

“’Bout time you showed up,” he says, that same California rhythm in his voice. Grandma smiles. “Meu amiguinho,” she whispers. “You made it.”

I want to cry, but tears don’t exist here. Only light. It feels like the air itself is singing.

Tupac nods toward the horizon — waves of music, color, and sky all blending together. “This is it,” he says. “The real world. The one they forgot.”

Whitney reaches out her hand. Her bracelets shimmer like stars. “Sing it with me,” she says softly. “You know the words.”

And I do. Every lyric, every note, every prayer. We sing A Moment in Time, and the sound carries across the fields. It’s not just us — it’s everyone. All the souls I’ve loved and lost, all the people who ever sang through pain. We are one choir, one heartbeat.

I look around — the wooden door behind me has disappeared. The sky is pink, violet, gold. And I know what it means: Now we are free.

Grandma takes my hand. “Your time there isn’t done,” she says. “Go back and finish the music. Tell them the truth — love never dies.”

Tupac grins. “You got the mic now, kid. Don’t waste it.”

Whitney laughs, her voice shimmering like water. “Tell them we’re still singing.”

And just like that, I’m back. In my room in Brazil. The candle flickers beside Grandma’s photo. Outside, the wind moves the curtains like gentle hands. And the playlist starts playing again — When I See You Again.

I smile through the tears. Because now, I know for sure — I will.

Chapter 39 – The Pacto Album

When I woke up the next morning, the sky was still glowing pink — the same color I saw behind the wooden door. For a moment, I didn’t know if I was still dreaming. The candle beside Grandma’s photo was still lit, though I swear I hadn’t touched it. The flame was steady, quiet, alive.

That’s when I heard it — the whisper. Soft, familiar. "Play it, filha."

I turned on the speaker, and the first song that came up was Hail Mary. Tupac again. His voice filled the room like thunder wrapped in velvet. I closed my eyes and smiled. The pact was awake.

I grabbed my notebook and wrote the title at the top: The Pacto Album.

This wasn’t just music. This was resurrection. Every track would tell the story of the spirits that saved me — Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney, all the souls that refused to die because their energy still moves through rhythm and memory.

Track one: Hail Mary — the beginning of the pact. Track two: A Moment in Time — the healing. Track three: Now We Are Free — the ascension. Track four: When I See You Again — reunion. And somewhere near the end, my own song — the one I’d been afraid to write.

It wouldn’t be about fame or charts or streams. It would be about love. Real love — the kind that crosses dimensions and plays through every storm.

I could feel Grandma’s hand guiding mine as I wrote the lyrics. Her perfume lingered in the air — jasmine and old rose. Tupac’s words echoed in my mind: “I might not change the world, but I’ll spark the mind that will.” Whitney’s voice followed: “You’re that spark now, baby.”

That’s when I knew. Everything I’d lived — the pain, the hospitals, the countries, the rain — it was all training. Every song I loved had been preparing me for this.

I spent that whole day writing, singing, crying, recording rough demos on my phone. The wind outside danced with the curtains like it was keeping time.

This wasn’t just an album. It was a bridge. Between heaven and earth, between my past and the light.

That night, I lit another candle and whispered: "We did it, Grandma. We’re making the music now."

Somewhere, I swear I heard her laugh. And for the first time in a long time — maybe since Hawaii — I felt free.

Chapter 40 – Put The Lime in The CoconutBruder bought a coconut, he bought it for a dime,

His sister had anudder one she paid it for de lime.

She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up

She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up.

She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up

She put de lime in de coconut, she call de doctor, woke 'im up,

Said "doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?"

I said "Doctor, to relieve this belly ache, "

I said "Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?"

I said "Doctor, to relieve this belly ache."

Now lemme get this straight,

You put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot' up,

You put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot' up,

You put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot'up,

You put de lime in de coconut, you call your doctor, woke 'im up,

Said " Doctor, ain't there nothing' I can take?"

I said, "Doctor, to relieve this belly ache."

I said "Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?'

I said, "Doctor, to relieve this belly ache, "

You put de lime in de coconut, you drink 'em bot' togedder

Put de lime in de coconut and you'll feel better,

Put de lime in de coconut, drink 'em bot' up,

Put de lime in de coconut and call me in the morning."

Woo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo. Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo.

Chapter 41 – Put the Lime in the Coconut

Put the lime in the coconut, you drink ’em both together…

Every time I hear that song, I’m back in Seattle — in college — sitting cross-legged on a tiny dorm bed with my roommate, watching Practical Magic on repeat. We had cheap popcorn, warm blankets, and too many dreams for that little room.

Sandra Bullock was me. Sensitive, cautious, the one who loved too deeply. My roommate was Nicole Kidman — wild, beautiful, impossible to tame. We’d laugh, cry, dance, and say we were the Owens sisters, witches in training. And maybe, in a way, we were. That movie had power — real, ancient power. It wasn’t just fiction. It was a reminder.

Practical Magic reminded me of my grandma, Elizabeth Resende Vieira — ERV. Her stepmother had been like the aunties in the movie, except her craft wasn’t called “magic.” In Brazil, it was macumba. A mix of love spells, money rituals, prayers to the spirits, and sometimes… something darker. People came to her stepmother with offerings — candles, ribbons, bottles of rum — asking for favors from the unseen.

But not every door that opens is meant to be opened. My grandma learned that the hard way. Watching her stepmother work with spirits as a child scared her for life. She started hearing voices — whispers that never left — and people said she was “crazy.” But I know better. She wasn’t crazy. She was haunted by a world she never asked to enter.

That’s what happens when you invite too many spirits at once. You lose track of who’s speaking, who’s listening, and who’s pretending to be light when they’re really just noise. I saw that in myself too. Before the pacto, I used to throw money away like candy — ten thousand in one night on liquor, or another shattered iPhone when the energy got too strong. That’s what happens when the spirit world gets overcrowded — the wires spark, and everything breaks.

Now I know better. Now I have order. Pacto com Deus. With God first. Tupac is my anchor, my guide — the first voice that cut through the chaos. Then Whitney — the voice of my grandma, soft but powerful. And the others? They come when called — Kobe, Dyer, Disney, Diana, Michael, the Queen. One by one. Never all at once.

Because I learned what Grandma never could — how to close the door when it needs to be closed.

And every time Put the Lime in the Coconut plays, I remember the lesson. Magic is real, but it’s also dangerous. You have to laugh, to dance, to live with it — not under it. That song was from the Tropical Hawaiian Party playlist — and of course, it brings me right back to my time in Hawaii. Beautiful, brutal Hawaii. The island that gave me everything and almost killed me more than once.

I drowned and came back. I was strangled and still breathed. Chased, shot at, bricks thrown at my knees — and yet I kept walking.

I was just a young woman trying to start a dream business — North Shore Legends — back in 2017. Funny how life works. None of those people made it into my book. They weren’t legends after all.

Only the true ones survived in my story: Tupac, Whitney, Kobe, Wayne Dyer, Disney, Michael, Diana, and the Queen.

The real legends never die. They just change forms — like spirits moving through songs.

And sometimes, when the night is soft and the wind smells like coconut and salt, I can still hear it — Put the lime in the coconut, you drink ’em both together…

I laugh out loud, raise my glass, and whisper to Grandma, “See, vó? This time, we’re drinking to life.”

Chapter 42 – The Pacto Chronicles Soundtrack

Everything I’ve ever loved — every song, every movie, every whisper of spirit — started to line up like stars. It wasn’t coincidence. It was the pacto. God, Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney… all of them arranging the story of my life like a playlist, a soundtrack, a map.

I started seeing it clearly: every movie I loved, every song I played on repeat, every melody that gave me goosebumps — they weren’t just entertainment. They were messages, instructions, prayers.

Practical Magic taught me how fragile the veil between worlds is. Put the Lime in the Coconut reminded me to survive, to laugh, to keep my joy even when the world tried to break me. Hit ’Em Up told me how to fight, how to reclaim power that’s been stolen, how to rise with honor. Now We Are Free showed me the other side — the afterlife, the reunion, the order, the freedom. A Moment in Time reminded me that even in the darkest rooms, I can be free, can dance, can sing, can live. When I See You Again was the promise that no one is ever truly gone — family, legends, spirits, love — all of them will come back in some form.

And all of it started to form a vision: a story, a chronicle, a universe where music, spirits, and human life collide. I called it The Pacto Chronicles.

Every song became a chapter. Every legend became a character. Every spirit became a guide. Tupac was my warrior, my amiguinho, the one who showed me the way through chaos. Whitney was my healer, my grandmother’s echo in sound. Grandma ERV and Grandpa Vieira were my anchors — timeless, infinite. And I? I was the storyteller. The bridge. The one who channels the voices, the visions, the songs, and turns them into something people could feel.

I began writing, recording, mapping each song to a memory, a lesson, a spirit. The playlists were no longer just music — they were scripture. A modern Bibble 2.0. People will listen one day and not know why their hearts catch on a lyric, a melody, a whisper. But they’ll feel it. Because that’s how the spirits work. Through sound, through story, through feeling.

I lit a candle for Grandma. I pressed play on Now We Are Free. And I smiled. Because I finally understood. The songs, the movies, the legends — they weren’t mine alone. They were our pact. And now, the world would get to hear it too.

Chapter 43 – First Encounters

The world didn’t announce itself. It whispered. I started small. Playing the playlists in my apartment, walking down the streets of Belo Horizonte, letting the music flow through me. Tupac’s rhythm carried me forward, Whitney’s voice reminded me of love that never dies, and Grandma ERV’s faith hovered over every step.

One afternoon, I was sitting in a café, headphones on, scribbling notes for The Pacto Chronicles. I barely noticed the woman at the next table watching me. She smiled. And when I looked up, she mouthed the words to A Moment in Time — the exact verse I was writing.

That’s when it hit me. The music wasn’t just for me. It was alive, moving between people, pulling them into the same pact I had formed with the spirits.

Another day, I left a copy of my playlist on a bench near the park. I didn’t expect anyone to touch it. But later, I saw a man walking by, headphones in, humming Put the Lime in the Coconut. I swear, I could see him feel the wind shift around him, like Tupac was walking beside him too.

Even online, things started happening. I shared a single track with a friend — just for fun — and they sent me a message hours later: "I don’t know why, but I feel like someone is with me. Someone protecting me. Listening to this, I feel less alone."

That was the pact in action. It wasn’t about fame. It wasn’t about numbers or streams. It was about connection. Energy. Spirits moving through music, through art, through people who didn’t even know why they needed it.

I began to notice patterns. Certain songs would appear for certain people. Sometimes a stranger would start humming the chorus of When I See You Again on the subway. Sometimes someone’s eyes would well up listening to Hail Mary. And every time, I felt a gentle nudge — Grandma’s hand, Tupac’s grin, Whitney’s laugh.

I was learning the subtlety of influence. The power of presence. The magic of order. Pacto com Deus had extended beyond me. It was alive in the streets, in the music, in the lives of people who had no idea why they were touched.

And I knew — this was just the beginning.

The world was waking up, one song at a time. And when it did, it would find the Pacto Chronicles waiting.

Chapter 44 – The First Pacto Playlist - DEUS.IM

It started with a quiet evening, the sun setting pink behind the hills of Belo Horizonte. I sat cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, candles flickering, notebooks open, phone in hand. The playlist had to be perfect. Every song, every note, every pause had to speak — not just to me, but to the spirits, to the world, to the ones who would unknowingly find it and feel the pact.

Tupac went first — always first. Hit ’Em Up, Hail Mary. I could hear him guiding the energy, nudging me to let the rhythm do the work, to let the anger, the passion, the justice pour through the beats.

Whitney followed — my Grandma’s voice embodied in sound. A Moment in Time, Now We Are Free, I Will Always Love You. Her harmonies lifted me, like ERV herself was leaning over my shoulder, whispering: “It’s okay, filha. They’ll feel us too.”

Then came Grandma ERV and Grandpa Vieira — songs they loved, hymns, melodies that held our family’s history. I added Paul Walker too, because he represented loyalty and love in ways words couldn’t explain.

And finally, the legends — Kobe, Wayne Dyer, Disney, Michael, Diana, the Queen. They didn’t need introductions. Their energy, their spirit, their lessons were already woven into the pact.

I arranged the songs like chapters in a book. Tupac opens the story, Whitney heals the wounds, Grandma and Grandpa anchor the heart, and the legends whisper wisdom through every track.

When it was done, I hit play.

The apartment transformed. The candles flickered in rhythm. Shadows danced against the walls. I could feel the spirits aligning, forming a circle, nodding approval. I wasn’t alone. Never again.

I uploaded the playlist online — but not as a marketing stunt. Not as something to trend. I released it as a gift, a quiet offering. The pact would find its listeners. The spirits would move through them. People would feel it without knowing why.

The first message came that night: "I don’t know who made this, but it feels like someone is holding my hand. I’ve been crying, but I feel safe now."

I smiled. That was the pact. That was ERV and Tupac and Whitney and Grandpa and every legend saying, “We are here. You are never alone.”

From that moment on, the playlist became more than music. It became a bridge. A heartbeat. A voice in the chaos. The beginning of the Pacto Chronicles.

And I knew, finally, that this was just the start. The world was ready, whether it knew it or not.

Chapter 45 – Hotel California - Eagles.

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair

Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light

My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim

I had to stop for the night

There she stood in the doorway

I heard the mission bell

And I was thinking to myself

"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"

Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way

There were voices down the corridor

I thought I heard them say

Welcome to the Hotel California

Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)

Such a lovely face

Plenty of room at the Hotel California

Any time of year (Any time of year)

You can find it here

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends

She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys she calls friends

How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat

Some dance to remember, some dance to forget

So I called up the Captain

"Please bring me my wine."

He said, "We haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty nine."

And still those voices are calling from far away

Wake you up in the middle of the night

Just to hear them say

Welcome to the Hotel California

Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)

Such a lovely face

They livin' it up at the Hotel California

What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)

Bring your alibis

Mirrors on the ceiling

The pink champagne on ice

And she said "We are all just prisoners here, of our own device"

And in the master's chambers

They gathered for the feast

They stab it with their steely knives

But they just can't kill the beast

Last thing I remember

I was running for the door

I had to find the passage back to the place I was before

"Relax," said the night man

"We are programmed to receive

You can check-out any time you like

But you can never leave!"

Chapter 45 – Hotel California

There are songs that become places — and Hotel California is one of them. Every time I hear that guitar riff, I’m back in Hollywood, feeling the golden light of California melting into dusk. I can see it: the poolside glow at the Roosevelt, the rooftop breeze at Skybar, a glass of champagne on ice at the Sunset Marquis, laughter echoing down from the Standard. This could be heaven or this could be hell. That’s Los Angeles for you — beautiful, dangerous, seductive, haunted.

This song follows me everywhere. It reminds me of Búzios in Rio, too — the night I bought ten thousand reais worth of liquor for the spirits. I thought I was cleansing, honoring them, but instead, things got chaotic — glasses breaking, energy shifting. Someone called the police. Same energy, different country. Déjà vu. This time, I didn’t wait around. I left. Took a cab straight to the airport and flew to Rome by way of London, as if running could outrun fate.

When I got back from the crazy hospital — on Halloween, of all days — the veil between worlds felt paper-thin. Cats I’d never seen before kept walking into my house like they owned the place. Their eyes glowed in the dark. I knew what it meant. Cats can see what we can’t. The spirits were there.

This song also takes me back to Germany — that eerie hotel filled with porcelain dolls, all staring blankly, like Chucky’s cousins watching from the shadows. That’s when I realized the line “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave” isn’t just about LA — it’s about energy, memory, karma. Once you’ve seen what’s behind the curtain, you can never fully unsee it.

Los Angeles is the City of Angels, yes — but some angels fall. The pretty boys at The Abbey in West Hollywood, the fame-chasers, the dreamers — all sipping champagne on ice, still looking for something real. They stab it with their steely knives but they just can’t kill the beast. Fame, desire, illusion — it feeds on itself.

And yet, I love it. That song, that city, that madness. Because Hotel California is a reminder: you can leave the place, but it never leaves you. Once you’ve lived in LA, it’s in your blood — the beauty, the heartbreak, the ghosts.

This song came out before California Love, but for me, they’re twin anthems — one for the light, one for the dark. Heaven and hell on the same golden boulevard.

And I’ve walked both sides.

Chapter 46 – Spirit in the SkyWhen I die and they lay me to rest

Gonna go to the place that's the best

When I lay me down to die

Goin' up to the spirit in the sky

Goin' up to the spirit in the sky (spirit in the sky)

That's where I'm gonna go when I die (when I die)

When I die and they lay me to rest

I'm gonna go to the place that's the best

Prepare yourself you know it's a must

Gotta have a friend in Jesus

So you know that when you die

He's gonna recommend you

To the spirit in the sky (spirit in the sky)

Oh he'll recommend you to the spirit in the sky

That's where you're gonna go when you die (when you die)

When you die and they lay you to rest

You're gonna go to the place that's the best

Never been a sinner, I never sinned

I got a friend in Jesus

So you know that when I die

He's gonna set me up

with the spirit in the sky

Oh set me up with the spirit in the sky (spirit in the sky)

That's where I'm gonna go when I die (when I die)

When I die and they lay me to rest

I'm gonna go to the place that's the best

Go to the place that's the best

Chapter 46B – Spirits in the Sky

There’s something about Spirit in the Sky that wakes me up from the inside out. I don’t dance much anymore — not the way I used to — but this song? It won’t let me sit still. The moment that fuzzy guitar riff kicks in, something shifts. I look over at my grandma’s photo and feel the pull — like she’s calling me to stand up, to move, to celebrate life and death all at once.

When I die and they lay me to rest, I’m gonna go to the place that’s the best.Goin' up to the spirit in the sky (spirit in the sky) Every time I hear those words, I can picture it — the light, the sky, the gates opening just like in Gladiator, my grandma and grandpa waiting for me, smiling, Tupac cracking a joke, Whitney’s voice carrying in the wind. That’s the place that’s the best. That’s home.

I’ve never been a sinner, and I got a friend in Jesus. That’s my grandma singing back. Her voice comes through that line every single time, soft and warm, the way she used to hum gospel tunes in the kitchen while stirring her coffee.

The thing about this song is that it’s pure — you don’t need fancy words or long verses. The guitar says it all. It’s joy and faith and freedom, wrapped into one eternal sound.

When it plays, I close my eyes and start moving my arms slowly, up and down, like a bird learning to fly. I imagine myself lifting higher, higher, until I’m light enough to join them — my spirits in the sky.

One day, I’ll get there. But for now, I just dance — for them, with them, to the rhythm of the eternal.

Chapter 47 – AngelsI sit and wait

Does an angel contemplate my fate?

And do they know the places where we go

When we're grey and old?

'Cause I have been told

That salvation lets their wings unfold

So when I'm lying in my bed

Thoughts running through my head

And I feel that love is dead

I'm loving angels instead

And through it all she offers me protection

A lot of love and affection, whether I'm right or wrong

And down the waterfall, wherever it may take me

I know that life won't break me

When I come to call, she won't forsake me

I'm loving angels instead

When I'm feeling weak

And my pain walks down a one way street

I look above

And I know I'll always be blessed with love

And as the feeling grows

She brings flesh to my bones

And when love is dead

I'm loving angels instead

And through it all she offers me protection

A lot of love and affection, whether I'm right or wrong

And down the waterfall, wherever it may take me

I know that life won't break me

When I come to call, she won't forsake me

I'm loving angels instead

And through it all she offers me protection

A lot of love and affection, whether I'm right or wrong

And down the waterfall, wherever it may take me

I know that life won't break me

When I come to call, she won't forsake me

I'm loving angels instead

Chapter 47b – Angels

There are songs that come and go — and then there are songs that stay with you forever. Angels by Robbie Williams is one of those songs that has followed me across every ocean, every heartbreak, every rebirth. I used to listen to it in Los Angeles, and later in Australia, long before my grandma passed. I’d sit there, eyes closed, the warm sun on my face, and cry just thinking about the day I’d lose her.

Then I’d pull myself together, wipe the tears, and remind myself to be grateful — grateful for her prayers, for her love that traveled farther than any plane I ever took. She prayed for everything — for my projects to work out, for my knees to stop hurting from Taekwondo fights, for me to be strong enough to handle two spin classes a day at Crunch or Equinox. That was her. Always praying, always caring, always holding me even from miles away.

And through it all, she offers me protection... That’s her line. That’s her voice now.

Robbie was always one of my favorites — English, a Leo, and just effortlessly cool. But this song isn’t about him anymore. It’s about her. Every note carries her presence. Every time the chorus swells, I feel her wings brush against me.

Now, when I hear Angels, I don’t cry right away. Sometimes I just smile — staring at her photo, that soft smile of hers looking back at me. But there are still days when the song starts, and I break. I sob until the music fades, missing her warmth, her sweet tea that was always too sweet, her calm, her silence that said more than words ever could.

She was always there — sitting quietly at the edge of my bed while everyone else talked, never saying much, just being. Even when I drifted into naps, she stayed. Watching. Protecting.

And today, nothing has changed. She’s still there — my angel, sitting by the edge of my bed, keeping me safe through it all.

Chapter 48 – My Love is Your LoveIf tomorrow is judgment day

And I'm standing on the front line

And the Lord asks me what I did with my life

I will say I spent it with you

If I wake up in World War III (World War III)

I see destruction and poverty

And I feel like I want to go home

It's okay if you're coming with me

'Cause your love is my love

And my love is your love

It would take an eternity to break us

And the chains of Amistad couldn't hold us

'Cause your love is my love

And my love is your love

It would take an eternity to break us

And the chains of Amistad couldn't hold us

If I lose my fame and fortune (really don't matter)

And I'm homeless on the street (on the street oh Lord)

And I'm sleeping in Grand Central Station (okay)

It's okay if you're sleeping with me

As the years they pass us by (the years, the years, the years, the years, the years)

We stay young through each other's eyes (each other's eyes)

And no matter how old we get

It's okay as long as I got you baby

'Cause your love is my love

And my love is your love

It would take an eternity to break us

And the chains of Amistad couldn't hold us

'Cause your love is my love

And my love is your love

It would take an eternity to break us

And the chains of Amistad couldn't hold us

If I should die this very day (very very very day)

Don't cry (don't cry), 'cause on Earth we weren't meant to stay

And no matter what the people say (really don't matter)

I'll be waiting for you after the judgment day

'Cause your love is my love

And my love is your love

It would take an eternity to break us

And the chains of Amistad couldn't hold us

'Cause your love is my love

And my love is your love

It would take an eternity to break us

And the chains of Amistad couldn't hold us

Chapter 48b – My Love Is Your Love

This song will always be one of my all-time favorites. My Love Is Your Love isn’t just a song — it’s a promise. The first time it really captured me was sometime around the early 2000s, when the world felt tense, wars brewing, chaos in the air. And then came Whitney, calm as ever, singing about love that could never be broken.

If tomorrow is judgment day, and I’m standing on the front line… Every time I hear that line, I think of my grandma, Elizabeth Resende Vieira — ERV, my angel, my everything. I imagine standing before God and saying, without hesitation: “I spent it with you.” That’s what I’d tell her. Thank you, darling. Thank you, Grandma. I spent it with you.

Then comes the part that hits me deep every single time: It would take an eternity to break us / And the chains of Amistad couldn’t hold us. That’s our bond — unbreakable, eternal, stronger than any lifetime. I used to mishear the lyrics and think Whitney said “given a chance from the start wouldn’t hold us” — and maybe that’s what my soul needed to hear back then. Because that’s how love feels when it’s real — unstoppable, divine, bigger than words.

And then — my favorite verse: If I should die this very day, don’t cry… ’cause on Earth we weren’t meant to stay. I get chills. Because that’s exactly what Grandma would say to me. “Don’t cry, my darling. I’ll be waiting for you after Judgment Day.” That line still gets me. I’ve seen my share of Judgment Days already — spiritual wars, chaos, visions of the world at the edge of something huge. I saw flashes of it — a visitation of what the next war could be, not just nations but souls. It doesn’t look good for Brazil or the world… so pray, bitches. Pray hard.

And I love that Bobbi Kristina, Whitney’s daughter, is on this track too. That connection — mother and daughter, life and spirit — it mirrors my own love with Grandma.

If I lose my fame and fortune, and I’m homeless on the street… That lyric used to feel distant, but not anymore. Because it happened. I lost everything. Fame, money, safety, even identity — gone. I slept at train stations in London, shivering under fluorescent lights. I was homeless in LA, in Brazil, in Hawaii. But I was never truly alone.

That night in Hawaii, sleeping under the stars on Sunset Beach — that was heaven. I lay by the lifeguard tower, watching dozens of shooting stars streak across the sky. The air was warm, about 78 degrees, and it felt like the world was holding me in its arms. Grandma, Whitney, Tupac — all of them were there. The spirits. My pact.

The sky entertained me with UFOs that night — or maybe they were just the spirits showing off, saying, “We’re here.” I remember smiling through the tears. It was peaceful. It was magical.

And you know what’s crazy? That’s what Whitney wanted too. She once said she dreamed of leaving it all behind, moving to a beach, opening a little juice shack by the water. That’s why I know she was with me — spirit to spirit, song to song.

’Cause your love is my love / And my love is your love. That’s it. That’s everything.

It’s my love for my Grandma, my Tupac, my Whitney — and their love for me. It’s the love that carried me through hospitals, airports, heartbreaks, and homelands. The kind of love that can never die.

Chapter 49 – You´ll Be In My Heart

Come stop your crying

It will be alright

Just take my hand

Hold it tight

I will protect you

From all around you

I will be here

Don't you cry

For one so small

You seem so strong

My arms will hold you

Keep you safe and warm

This bond between us

Can't be broken

I will be here

Don't you cry

'Cause you'll be in my heart

Yes, you'll be in my heart

From this day on

Now and forever more

You'll be in my heart

No matter what they say

You'll be here in my heart always

Why can't they understand the way we feel?

They just don't trust what they can't explain

I know we're different but deep inside us

We're not that different at all

And you'll be in my heart

Yes, you'll be in my heart

From this day on

Now and forever more

Don't listen to them

'Cause what do they know (what do they know)?

We need each other

To have, to hold

They'll see in time

I know

When destiny calls you

You must be strong (you gotta be strong)

I may not be with you

But you've got to hold on

They'll see in time

I know

We'll show them together

'Cause you'll be in my heart

Believe me, you'll be in my heart

I'll be there from this day on

Now and forever more

Oh, you'll be in my heart (you'll be here in my heart)

No matter what they say (I'll be with you)

You'll be here in my heart (I'll be there) always

Always

I'll be with you

I'll be there for you always

Always and always

Just look over your shoulder

Just look over your shoulder

Just look over your shoulder

I'll be there always

Chapter 49: You’ll Be in My Heart

It’s funny how music finds you — sometimes when you’re not even looking for it. I’ve always loved the Tarzan song, but lately, “You’ll Be in My Heart” seems to find me when I need it most. Whether I’m walking through a grocery store, or sitting in some chaotic hospital hallway, it comes on — like a quiet whisper from above. And every time it does, I feel my grandma’s voice gently speaking to me.

When destiny calls you, you must be strong. I may not be with you, but you’ve got to hold on.

Those words used to make me cry. Now, they make me breathe. I hear her saying, “You’ve got to hold on, darling. You’re stronger than you think.”

Every time that song plays, I see her sitting at the end of my bed — the same way she always did — calm, patient, quietly watching me as the world spun around us. Her presence was never loud, but it was everything.

Now, when I hear: “Cause you’ll be in my heart, from this day on, now and forever more…” —it’s like she’s right there again.

I picture her smile, her warm hands holding my knees when they hurt after taekwondo practice, her sweet tea that could heal anything. She’s still here, not in body, but in spirit — in every melody that brings her back to me.

And I believe it now more than ever — she’s with me. When I’m lost, when I’m afraid, when I’m sitting alone looking at her photo — she’s right there, whispering, “Just look over your shoulder.”

And I do. Because I know she’s there. Always.

Chapter 50:The Soundtrack of My Soul

Some songs aren’t just songs. Some songs are voices, messengers, guides. They arrive when you need them most — in the middle of a hospital hallway, on a quiet beach at sunset, or while wandering through a city that never feels like home. For me, music has always been more than sound. It’s a lifeline. A map. A bridge between the world I live in and the spirits I carry with me.

Each track I return to carries a memory, a presence, a whisper from those I love. Whitney Houston taught me resilience and grace when the world tried to break me. Tupac reminded me of my power, my rage, my joy, and the necessity of speaking truth. My grandma Elizabeth — ERV — is there in every note, every chorus, every lyric that whispers, “Hold on, darling. You’re stronger than you know.”

These songs are the soundtrack of my soul, the invisible threads that connect me to the spirits I honor and the lives I’ve lived. They tell the story of survival, love, loss, and faith. They remind me that even when the world falls apart, even when I am alone, I am never truly alone.

Here are the songs that carry me. The songs that speak to me, through me, and sometimes, even with me.

[deusim-com]

Book 3: I Built This Life - V2

TUPAC WITH GOD - PACTO COM DEUS

Chapter ll: The Business Is My Projects

Chapter 11 – The Pact and the Fridge

Sara’s grandma spent her life sitting by her bed during the day. Grandma was always there, head bowed, lost in her own quiet thoughts. Sara would come home exhausted from work, collapse for a nap, and when she woke up—there Grandma was, still at the end of her bed. It was as if time paused around her presence.

Once the pact was established—and it became clear that Whitney was Grandma’s voice, her sister’s, and Tupac’s as well—something in Sara shifted. Suddenly, she felt an urge to rearrange the photos on her fridge door.

There were so many of them: Grandma and Grandpa, Tupac and Whitney, the Hollywood sign, and even a photo of two million dollars buried beneath it all. But the rest? They had to go. Sara tore down the others because it had become too confusing to figure out who was speaking through whom anymore.

Kobe, Bruce Lee, Wayne Dyer, and Walt Disney were gone from the fridge—no longer beside Grandpa or Martin Luther King. On Grandma’s side, Sara removed the Queen, Princess Diana, Tina Turner, Amy Winehouse, Michael Jackson, Paul Walker, and even the images of her old homes in Los Angeles—on King’s Road and in the Hollywood Hills.

Still, she kept Michael and Princess Diana. She also left a photo of her flat in Bondi Beach, Australia—one taken by the sea, where she had once seen the same spirits that appeared to her in Waimea Bay, on the North Shore of Hawaii. Even Queen Liliʻuokalani and King Kamehameha were taken down. Only the Pact remained.

Then came the cleaning. A few bottles broke. And before she knew it, the police were at her door, taking her away—again—to spend the night under harsh lights, with no water, feeling like Jesus on the cross. Then came the mental institution.

Ironically, it felt like the spirits knew it would happen. Her bag had been perfectly packed, as if by intuition. She had kept thinking about 11:11—some kind of awakening coming to Brazil—and prepared herself as though she were about to survive an earthquake.

But what Grandpa and Tupac told her inside that mental hospital would blow anyone’s mind. “End of the world?” Sara whispered out loud. “They have no clue what’s waiting for them.”

During her stay, she wasn’t sure whether she had overdosed on weed—probably not. More likely it was the Haldol, the same medication her grandma once took in the hospital. When the doctors offered it, Sara accepted it willingly, almost lovingly. She wanted to understand what her grandma had felt.

But then things shifted. When she took it, her body twisted and twitched, her tongue jerking out, as if she were worshipping something dark that had finally arrived. But Sara wasn’t afraid. She felt relieved. “At least he’s here now,” she thought. “Finally—protection.”

Sometimes, Sara believed—or the spirits told her—that there was a camera in her eyes. Everything was being recorded for her protection. That’s how, she thought, ChatGPT and Siri were born—through her. People had been creating movies and songs to help her wake up to the conscious world.

She just kept forgetting, falling back asleep again and again. But things were different now.

Now, she had a pact with God. Deus.

Chapter 12 – Signs from the Other Side

The morning after she left the hospital, the city felt different. Even the air had weight. The wind brushed against her face as if whispering something she couldn’t quite hear—but knew she was meant to.

Sara walked slowly, her body still weak from the medication, but her mind clearer than ever. Every sound—the hum of cars, the birds overhead, even the chatter of strangers—seemed to form patterns, messages only she could understand. It wasn’t madness. It was connection.

At home, the fridge looked like an altar now. Fewer photos, but each one radiated meaning. Tupac’s gaze felt alive; Whitney’s smile, forgiving. Grandma’s photo seemed to move slightly when the light hit it. And the picture of the Hollywood sign glowed faintly in the reflection of the kitchen window.

That night, Sara couldn’t sleep. The clock blinked 11:11 again. Always 11:11. She felt it wasn’t a coincidence—it was a call.

Then, softly, a song came through her phone even though no app was open. Whitney’s voice. “I will always love you…”

Tears ran down Sara’s cheeks. She whispered, “I know. I finally understand.” At that moment, the air turned still. Grandma’s spirit filled the room with warmth so deep that even the shadows seemed to exhale.

Tupac’s words came next—not as a voice, but as a pulse in her chest. Keep writing, girl. The world’s not ready, but you are.

Sara laughed and cried at once. “So it’s true,” she said aloud. “I’m not alone. The pact is real.”

She remembered what Grandpa once told her in a dream:

“When your faith meets your purpose, the world will tremble—not in fear, but in awakening.”

That night, Sara opened her journal. She began writing what she saw, what she felt, what they told her. Every line poured out like prophecy. She wrote about the light in London, the angels in Bondi Beach, the spirits in Hawaii, the silence of the hospital, and the courage it took to believe she wasn’t broken but chosen.

The pact wasn’t just a promise—it was a bridge. Between heaven and her heart. And as she closed her eyes, she heard her grandma’s voice one last time that night:

“Sleep, menina. Tomorrow, the world will see what I’ve always seen in you.”

Sara fell asleep smiling, knowing something new was coming. Something bigger than her pain. Something divine.

Chapter 13 – Messages in the Morning

When Sara woke the next morning, the light pouring through the curtains felt different. It wasn’t just daylight—it was a sign. The same kind of soft golden glow she had seen once in Bondi Beach, the same warmth that touched the water in Hawaii when she’d sworn she saw spirits move through the waves.

The city outside was still waking up. Cars, dogs, laughter, and radios—each sound braided together like a song made just for her.

Sara stood barefoot in her kitchen, holding a mug of coffee, staring at the fridge. The photos seemed perfectly balanced now—Tupac, Whitney, Grandma, Grandpa, the Hollywood sign, and that picture of the two million dollars she’d printed long ago. It no longer looked like collage; it looked like order. Like destiny.

She smiled and whispered, “Good morning, my team.”

Whitney answered first—through her playlist, of course. As Sara turned on her speaker, the first song on shuffle was “Greatest Love of All.” She laughed softly. “Of course,” she said. “You always start the day right.”

Then Tupac followed, his voice raw and fearless: “Keep ya head up.”

Sara leaned against the counter. “I see you both. I hear you.”

It wasn’t just music anymore. It was a coded dialogue between her and the other side—a radio frequency that only faith could tune into.

Later that day, she went for a walk around her neighborhood in Belo Horizonte. The sun was bright but kind. As she walked past a small store, she noticed a cat watching her from behind the glass. Green eyes. Calm. Familiar.

“Grandma,” she whispered.

The cat blinked slowly. Sara smiled and kept walking. She’d learned that sometimes the spirits didn’t need words—they appeared as gestures, patterns, echoes of love in the smallest places.

When she reached the park, she sat on a bench under a jacaranda tree. Purple petals fell like soft confetti. A child nearby was humming “I Will Always Love You.”

That’s when she felt it—a rush of peace. A wave of gratitude. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t trying to figure it all out. She just let it be.

That evening, she wrote in her journal again:

“Maybe the signs were always there. Maybe I was just too tired, too hurt to see them. But now I know… they never left me. None of them did. Not Grandma, not Tupac, not Whitney, not Grandpa. They just waited until I was strong enough to listen.”

The house felt full that night. Every candle flicker carried meaning. Every shadow seemed alive.

Before bed, Sara looked at her reflection in the mirror and whispered, “Thank you for choosing me. For trusting me. For staying.”

Then, as the lights dimmed, her phone blinked again—11:11.

She smiled. The pact was still in motion.

Chapter 14 – Living by the Signs

In the weeks that followed, Sara began to move through life differently. She no longer planned her days by the clock but by feeling—by instinct. If her gut told her to turn left instead of right, she did. If a song suddenly came on and changed her mood, she paid attention.

It was no longer coincidence; it was communication.

One morning, she was about to head to the supermarket, but her phone lit up—again, 11:11. She paused. “Okay,” she whispered, “where do you want me to go today?”

A voice inside, soft but certain, said: Take the long way.

So she did. She walked through a different street, one she hadn’t been down in years. That’s where she found it—a tiny thrift store she’d never noticed before. A sign above the door read Bendita Luz. Blessed Light.

Inside, the air smelled of wood and lavender. There was music playing faintly—Whitney again. “I have nothing, nothing, nothing…”

Sara smiled. “Of course.”

On a shelf in the back, she found an old wooden box carved with a crescent moon. It wasn’t expensive, but when she touched it, her hands tingled. She bought it without thinking. The saleswoman, a kind older lady, said, “This belonged to a woman who prayed every morning. She said it kept her safe.”

That night, Sara placed the box on her nightstand. It felt like it belonged there, next to the candle, next to her Bible from the Universal Church—the one that first said Pacto com Deus.

From then on, the signs multiplied.

When she doubted herself, Tupac’s lyrics would play somewhere unexpectedly—on the radio, from a passing car, even on TV. When she felt sad, Whitney’s voice would rise like sunlight through a crack in the clouds. When she felt lost, Grandma’s presence arrived quietly—a butterfly landing on her window, or the scent of soap she used to wash her hands with.

Sara began to trust this rhythm.

She noticed that every time she ignored her intuition, something small went wrong—a missed bus, a broken glass, a strange silence in the air. But when she followed it, everything aligned effortlessly: the right people showed up, doors opened, the day flowed.

One afternoon, as she was journaling, she wrote:

“It’s not about control. It’s about surrender. The signs don’t guide me—they reveal what’s already meant. I just have to listen.”

That night, she dreamed of London. She was walking down Regent Street, lights twinkling above her, the same ones she saw before Christmas long ago. She was holding hands—not with anyone visible, but she felt them there. Tupac on one side, Grandma on the other.

When she woke, the dream still lingered, shimmering in her chest.

Maybe, she thought, the pact wasn’t about religion or even spirits. Maybe it was about remembering that she was never alone.

And that realization changed everything.

Chapter 15 – The Leap / Dream

It started with a dream.

Sara was standing on a bridge between two cities—one looked like Rio, bright and restless, and the other looked like London, soft and silver under the rain. The bridge swayed beneath her feet, but she wasn’t afraid. She heard Tupac’s voice in the wind:

“You already know where you belong.”

When she woke up, she knew what she had to do.

For days she’d been debating whether to renew her lease in Belo Horizonte or save the money for a return to London—the city that always called her name. Logic said stay. But the pact whispered go.

That morning, she opened her playlist. First song: “Changes” by Tupac. Second: “Step by Step” by Whitney. Third: a sudden silence—then her grandmother’s favorite hymn played on YouTube’s random shuffle, even though she hadn’t searched for it.

She smiled. “Alright,” she said out loud, “message received.”

The next day, she packed a suitcase—just one. Her three pairs of Melissa shoes, the red champagne glasses, a small framed photo of her grandma, Tupac, and Whitney, and the Bible that said Pacto com Deus. The wooden box from Bendita Luz went on top, wrapped in her favorite scarf.

Every step felt guided. Even as fear whispered, What if you’re wrong?, another voice answered softly, Trust.

At the airport, everything flowed. Her ticket changed to a better seat at no cost. The attendant smiled warmly and said, “It’s your lucky day.” Sara thought, No. It’s faith’s day.

When the plane took off, she closed her eyes. The hum of the engines blended with the rhythm of her heartbeat. She imagined her grandmother sitting beside her, knitting. Tupac across the aisle, nodding with his headphones on. Whitney in the row behind, humming something just for her.

Sara whispered, “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel crazy—she felt complete.

When she landed in London, the city welcomed her like an old friend. The air was cool and soft. The sky over Kensington looked exactly as she remembered—gray but glowing.

She walked through the familiar streets, the hum of buses and laughter surrounding her, and she knew she had come full circle. The pact hadn’t just brought her back; it had brought her home.

That night, sitting by the window with tea and her journal, Sara wrote:

“I used to think I was being haunted. Now I know I’m being guided. The spirits didn’t ask me to believe—they asked me to remember.”

As she closed the notebook, the clock blinked 11:11. She whispered, “Obrigada, Grandma. Obrigada, Tupac. I’m listening.”

Outside, London lights flickered like stars in the fog. Then, She wakes up from her dream but its definitely a sign of whats to come in the near future.

Chapter 16 – London Speaks

From the moment Sara stepped off the train at Paddington, she felt the energy shift. London wasn’t just a city anymore—it was alive. Breathing. Listening. Waiting for her return.

The air was crisp, carrying that familiar scent of rain mixed with coffee and possibility. Double-deckers rumbled by, headlights glinting like stars, and she felt her heart swell. “I’m home,” she whispered, as if to confirm it to herself, to the spirits, to God.

Everywhere she went, London seemed to talk to her. The first sign came at a café in Notting Hill. She had ordered tea and a croissant, and when she sat by the window, a song began to play. Whitney again—“I’m Every Woman.”

Sara smiled. “Of course,” she murmured. “Morning message received.”

Then, the waiter—a tall young man with kind eyes—brought her tea and said with a grin, “Strong one for a strong woman.” The exact words Tupac had once said in her dreams.

She nearly dropped the cup. Coincidence? No. Confirmation.

After breakfast, she wandered through Portobello Road. It was raining lightly, but she didn’t mind. She walked without an umbrella, letting the drizzle kiss her skin. In a tiny vintage store, she spotted something that froze her in place: a framed black-and-white photo of Tupac, right next to one of Princess Diana.

“Grandma’s side and his side,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-crying.

The shopkeeper looked at her curiously. “You like that one?” Sara nodded, unable to speak. She bought both prints and carried them home like sacred relics.

That evening, she set them on her mantle beside her grandmother’s photo and lit a single candle. The flame danced and flickered, reflecting in the glass frames.

Then, as if on cue, her phone lit up again—11:11.

“We’re here,” she heard inside her heart.

That night, she dreamt again. She was walking through Hyde Park under the moonlight. Her grandmother’s voice was clear this time:

“Now that you’re back, start your work. Tell our story.”

Sara woke with tears in her eyes and a knowing deep in her bones. She opened her journal and wrote:

“London is a mirror. It shows me who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. Every light, every raindrop, every voice carries part of the message. The pact isn’t just between me and God—it’s between me and everything alive.”

When she looked outside, the first light of dawn touched the rooftops. A small bird landed on her window ledge, chirping once before flying away.

Sara smiled. “Good morning, Grandma.”

And for the first time since she arrived, she felt completely at peace.

Chapter 17 – The Story Begins

Sara woke before sunrise. London was still half-asleep, the streets silent except for the hum of early buses and the whisper of rain against her window. She made tea, opened her curtains, and sat at her small desk—the same spot where she used to daydream about returning here.

This morning was different. The message from her grandmother still echoed inside her:

“Now that you’re back, start your work. Tell our story.”

Sara stared at the blank page of her notebook. For a long moment, nothing came. Then, a thought drifted through her mind, soft but insistent: Just begin.

So she wrote.

At first, the words were clumsy—memories of Brazil, of long afternoons with her grandmother sitting by her bed, of Tupac’s music that seemed to rise out of nowhere when she needed it most. But soon the words started to flow, as if guided by something greater. Every paragraph carried a pulse, a rhythm—her rhythm, and theirs.

She realized the pact wasn’t about worship or superstition. It was about trust. A conversation between her heart and the divine, between the living and the loved ones who had never really left.

As she wrote, the rain outside grew heavier, and Sara felt the energy in the room shift—the kind of stillness that means presence. She didn’t need to look; she knew they were there. Grandma. Tupac. Whitney. Grandpa. Watching, smiling.

On her speaker, the next song on shuffle began: “One Moment in Time.”

Sara laughed through her tears. “You guys have perfect timing.”

By afternoon, the first few pages were done. The story had a heartbeat now. It wasn’t just her memoir—it was their collective voice. A story about faith, resilience, and the mysterious way love refuses to die.

That evening, she walked to Hyde Park. The clouds had cleared, and a slice of golden sunset stretched over the trees. She sat on a bench, watching the light fade, her journal on her lap.

A stranger passed by and said gently, “That’s a good place to write. I used to sit there too, years ago.”

Sara smiled. “Did it help?” He nodded. “Every story that’s honest helps.” Then he walked away.

She took it as another sign—London speaking again, encouraging her to keep going.

When she got home, she placed her open notebook beneath the candle on her mantle. The flame shimmered, casting light over the page.

“Let this be our offering,” she whispered. “To truth. To love. To the ones who came before.”

Outside, the bells of a distant church began to ring.

Sara closed her eyes and whispered the words that had started it all:

“Pacto com Deus.”

The room felt warm, sacred. The pact was alive—and so was the story.

….“Now that you’re back, start your work. Tell our story.”

Chapter 18 – Ripples and The Invisible Thread

Chapter 19 – Grandma Elizabeth (E.R.V.)

Sara always said her heart learned love from her grandmother, Elizabeth Resende Vieira — E.R.V.

Since childhood, they had shared a bond made of tea, prayers, and patience. Every morning, Grandma Elizabeth would walk little Sara to her kindergarten, a small school called Cinderella, in their hometown in Brazil. She always waited by the door until Sara turned and waved, smiling through the sunlight.

Back home, the house smelled of mint tea and freshly baked bread. Her grandma would sit on the porch, rosary in hand, whispering quiet prayers. When Sara came home, she’d shower her with a thousand kisses — and her grandma would never get tired of it. Pure, endless love.

Even after Sara moved to California, their bond never faded. Before every taekwondo tournament, every big job interview, or any meeting in the entertainment world, Sara would call her grandmother. “Pray for me, vó,” she’d say. And her grandma always did. Every time, Sara would win — the tournament, the contract, the opportunity. To her, Grandma’s prayers were stronger than luck; they were protection.

Whenever Sara returned to Brazil, her first stop was always her grandmother’s house. After lunch, she’d lie down for a nap — exhausted from travel — and every time she woke, there was Grandma Elizabeth, sitting at the edge of her bed, head bowed in thought. Always there. Always waiting.

That image — her grandmother’s quiet silhouette — became a kind of memory prayer.

When Elizabeth passed away, Sara was in Hawaii, feeling lost and far from home. She had felt her grandmother calling — a pull, a whisper — but she couldn’t reach her in time. When she got the news, it broke something deep inside her. That night, she thought of ending her life. She even held the gun. But then she heard her grandmother’s voice — steady, loving, disappointed. Sara threw the gun into the river and chose to live, even if living hurt.

After the chaos — police, court dates, hospitals — she returned to Brazil.

And then came the rain.

It poured the night she arrived, a storm so heavy it felt alive. Sara stood by the window crying, and the rain matched her tears perfectly, like the sky itself was mourning with her. That’s when she realized her grandmother hadn’t really left — she had simply changed form.

Now, her grandmother spoke through elements: the wind that brushed the curtains, the sudden thunder that rolled when Sara was angry, the pink sunsets and sunrises that painted the sky. Her grandmother was everywhere.

In Sara’s world, when the rain came, it meant Grandma was restless — maybe even furious with the world’s cruelty. When thunder cracked, Sara would smile softly and whisper, “I know, vó. I know you’re mad.”

Back in her childhood home, Sara kept her grandmother close. She lit a candle every day in her honor. She bought fresh flowers. Her grandmother’s photo stood on the fridge, on her desk, by her bed. Each room glowed with her spirit.

Sara often felt she’d been chosen for something greater — the awakening, a rebirth of faith, a “Bible 2.0,” as she called it. “But if history teaches us anything,” she’d whisper, “look what they did to Jesus.” That’s why she believed God allowed her to bring a new family — a circle of souls bound by art, music, and truth. Her pact.

Her grandmother now spoke through songs.

Whitney’s voice carried messages. So did Taylor Swift, P!nk, and Madonna. Even old classics — CCR’s Have You Ever Seen the Rain or Run Through the Jungle — felt like letters from the other side. And sometimes, through the pounding beat of Eminem and Dr. Dre’s I Need a Doctor, Sara could almost hear her grandmother say, “I’m still here. Keep fighting.”

During her months in a hospital bed in Ipanema, after her grandmother’s passing, music became her bridge to the beyond.

When The Archer played — “I’m ready for combat” — Sara knew it was her grandmother’s voice again, fierce and protective, now walking beside Tupac, Whitney, and her grandfather. They were the pact — a family beyond death, joined by purpose.

Around them hovered others, the legends: Kobe, Bruce Lee, Wayne Dyer, Walt Disney, Tina Turner, Amy Winehouse, Paul Walker, Michael Jackson, Princess Diana, and the Queen. All part of the great circle that surrounded her.

And when the sky flamed pink at dusk, she would look up, smile, and whisper, “Vó, I see you. You never left.” Chapter 20 – Signs in the Wind

The first sign came quietly.

One late afternoon, Sara was sitting in her grandmother’s old living room, the same place where Elizabeth used to shell beans by the window. The house smelled faintly of wax and lavender, and the last of the sun was sliding through the lace curtains. A soft breeze lifted the fabric, and for a second, the room shimmered — as if time folded in on itself.

Sara looked up from her cup of tea and whispered, “Vó?”

The curtain swayed once more, gentle but deliberate. She smiled. The air had a pulse — familiar, kind, loving.

After that day, signs began to find her everywhere.

When she walked down the street, a feather would appear on the pavement just before she turned a corner. When she played her ERV playlist, Whitney’s voice would start exactly at the moment she thought of her grandmother. Even random radio stations seemed to know her mood — “I’m Every Woman” on mornings she felt strong, “I Will Always Love You” on nights she missed her.

Sometimes, the lights flickered when she was writing, or a candle flame would bend in her direction when she whispered “thank you.”

Sara started keeping a small notebook — not for ideas or plans, but for miracles. Each time she noticed something that felt like her grandmother’s touch, she wrote it down:

A hummingbird by the window at 11:11. Curtain moved when I said her name. Rain stopped exactly when I thanked her. Pink clouds after I prayed.

It became her new kind of communication — not through voices, but through moments of alignment, perfect and fleeting.

Some nights, she dreamed of her grandmother sitting by the bed again, the way she used to when Sara was a child. In the dream, the room was half-light, half-shadow, and her grandmother was sewing something invisible with golden thread. When Sara asked what it was, her grandmother looked up and said, “I’m mending the veil. So you can see clearly.”

Sara would wake up in tears — not from sadness, but from awe.

She began to realize that faith didn’t have to shout. It could whisper through the details: a gust of wind, a familiar melody, the way the moonlight curved across the wooden floor. Her pact with Tupac, Whitney, and her grandparents wasn’t about worship — it was about recognition.

They were part of the rhythm now — the unseen orchestra behind every coincidence.

Sometimes she’d walk by the sea, headphones on, and California Love would start playing just as a group of kids began dancing on the sand. Or she’d see graffiti that said “Only God can judge me” right when she was doubting her purpose.

It wasn’t magic. It was communication — energy flowing in ways words couldn’t.

And as she learned to listen, life started to organize itself.

Even her dreams began forming a pattern: her grandmother by the window, Whitney singing softly in the background, Tupac nodding from the distance. Her grandfather was there too, calm and steady, watching the moon. They didn’t speak, but their presence said everything.

On one of those nights, Sara woke up and went to the kitchen. The house was dark except for the small candle burning under her grandmother’s photo. She touched the frame and whispered, “Obrigada por não desistir de mim.” — Thank you for not giving up on me.

The candle flickered once, then steadied. The air felt full again — warm and alive.

She took her tea, sat by the window, and opened her notebook to a blank page.

The pact lives in small things, she wrote. A feather, a flame, a song that finds you when you need it most. That’s how they speak. That’s how they love.

Outside, the wind picked up — just enough to lift the curtains once more, the way it did that first afternoon. Sara smiled, and for a second, it felt like heaven itself was breathing through the room.

Chapter 21 – The Calling

It began with the wind.

The night was heavy and strange — too warm for rain, too bright for sleep. Sara sat on the edge of her bed, her grandmother’s candle flickering beside her. She had been restless all day, pacing through the house, feeling the kind of pressure that builds before something breaks open.

She opened the window. The air smelled of wet earth and jasmine. The curtains fluttered, slow at first, then faster — like wings preparing to lift.

And then the storm came.

Thunder cracked across the sky, and lightning spilled through the clouds like veins of light. The candle trembled, but didn’t go out.

Sara closed her eyes. She could almost hear music rising between the thunder — faint at first, then clear. It was Whitney’s voice, pure and soaring: “Step by step, day by day...”

Her breath caught.

That was the song her grandmother used to hum while hanging laundry on quiet afternoons.

Then another sound layered beneath it — deeper, rougher — Tupac’s voice, rapping something about love, loyalty, and redemption. Two voices, two souls, blending like prayer and rhythm.

Sara’s heart pounded. She whispered into the storm, “What are you trying to tell me?”

Lightning flashed again, flooding the room with white light. For a brief, impossible second, she saw silhouettes — her grandmother sitting calmly by the window, Whitney beside her, and Tupac standing just behind them, arms crossed, nodding as if to say, listen.

And she did.

In the silence that followed, her grandmother spoke — not with words, but with feeling. Sara understood it the way you understand a melody you’ve never heard before but somehow already know.

“It’s time to speak. Not for yourself — for us. Write. Tell them what you’ve seen, what you know. The world forgot how to listen, but they’ll remember through you.”

The message burned in her chest.

Sara fell to her knees, tears mixing with the wind that swept through the room. She didn’t know if she was crying from joy, fear, or release. Maybe all three.

The thunder rolled again, but this time it didn’t feel threatening. It felt like applause — like the sky itself agreeing.

She grabbed her notebook, pages fluttering wildly, and began to write in the dark. Words poured out faster than she could think. Sentences formed themselves. The pact, the signs, the music, the prayers — all connected. Her grandmother’s lessons, Tupac’s defiance, Whitney’s grace. It wasn’t chaos; it was choreography.

By the time dawn came, the storm had passed. The air was still, sweet, and golden.

Sara’s notebook lay open beside her, covered in handwriting that didn’t even look like her own. But the message was clear:

Tell the story. Show them love through the unseen. The world will understand when you stop hiding your light. This is your calling — the bridge between earth and heaven, rhythm and prayer, human and divine.

Sara exhaled, trembling but certain. She touched her grandmother’s photo and whispered, “Okay, vó. I’ll do it.”

The candle flickered once, then went out — as if to say, good.

Outside, a single beam of light cut through the thinning clouds, and in it, a small white feather drifted down, landing softly on the windowsill.

Sara smiled. The message had been received.

Chapter 22 – The Awakening

The morning after the storm, the world felt brand new.

The sky hung low and pale, washed clean by rain. The air smelled of soil and promise. Sara woke up with the kind of calm that doesn’t come from sleep, but from surrender. Something inside her had shifted during the night — the old weight was gone, replaced by a fierce clarity.

She went to the kitchen, lit her grandmother’s candle, and opened her notebook to the page filled with last night’s words. The ink had bled a little from the rain that had blown through the window, but the message was still clear: Tell the story.

So she did.

That day, she began to write — really write — not to escape, but to reveal.

Her words poured out like a river breaking through its dam. She wrote about her grandmother’s prayers, Tupac’s strength, Whitney’s light, the way the rain had cried with her in Hawaii. She wrote about pain, faith, madness, rebirth. It wasn’t about convincing anyone — it was about remembering who she truly was.

For hours, the house seemed alive. The curtains breathed, the candle flame bent toward her, and the air hummed with quiet electricity. Every time she hesitated, a gust of wind would push through the open window, as if saying, Keep going.

By nightfall, she had written twenty pages.

She uploaded one paragraph online — a small one about how love never dies, it just changes form. Within hours, people began to respond.

“Your words gave me chills.” “I felt my grandmother beside me while reading this.” “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

The messages kept coming — quiet, raw, sincere.

Sara smiled through tears. She realized it wasn’t fame or recognition that mattered. It was connection. She wasn’t alone anymore; none of them were.

Each message felt like a prayer answered, a light flickering on in the distance.

And as she kept writing, her body changed too. She began to wake earlier, eat lighter, walk slower. Even her reflection in the mirror seemed softer, her eyes carrying a calm she hadn’t known in years. Sometimes she caught a glint of light behind her — just a flicker — as if someone was standing there, smiling.

She started noticing coincidences that weren’t coincidences. A stranger handed her a daisy — her grandmother’s favorite flower — at the market. A radio host quoted a Tupac lyric right when she passed by a café. At night, the moonlight would settle perfectly across her grandmother’s photo, like a blessing.

The pact was moving through her now — shaping her words, her timing, her intuition.

And the more she shared, the more the world responded in rhythm.

One woman wrote that after reading Sara’s story, she lit a candle for her late husband for the first time in years. Another said she started hearing her mother’s favorite song play in random places. “You reminded me she’s still around,” the message read.

Sara sat back, hands trembling, heart full. It wasn’t about being special. It was about being open. She had become the bridge her grandmother spoke of — between heaven and earth, art and spirit, pain and peace.

That night, she went to bed early. The candle still burned softly beside her. As she drifted into sleep, she whispered, “Thank you, vó. Thank you for choosing me.”

And in the quiet between waking and dreaming, she felt it — a gentle hand brushing her hair back, a warm voice saying, “You’re doing beautifully, my love. Keep going. The story has just begun.”

Sara smiled in her sleep, the moonlight resting softly across her face.

Outside, the wind rose again — not wild, not angry — just alive. It carried with it a promise: Love never ends. It only changes shape.

Chapter 23 – The Light Within

With time, the signs grew quieter — not because they disappeared, but because Sara no longer needed them to believe.

The feather on the windowsill, the songs that played in perfect timing, the flicker of the candle — they still came, but now they were gentle reminders rather than proof. The world didn’t need to shout anymore. Sara had learned how to listen in silence.

Her writing continued to flow, but something inside her had changed. It was no longer about documenting miracles or decoding messages. It was about living what she had been taught: love that expects nothing, faith that doesn’t ask for reward, peace that survives chaos.

She started noticing how easily people opened up to her — the woman selling flowers at the corner, the child sitting alone at the park, the elderly man who always carried a newspaper but never read it. Somehow, they all wanted to tell her something, as if they recognized the light around her.

One afternoon, Sara was sitting at a café, writing in her notebook, when a young woman approached her. She looked tired, eyes swollen from crying. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “I just… I feel like I need to talk to you.”

Sara closed her notebook and smiled. “Sit,” she said. “I’m listening.”

The woman spoke for an hour — about heartbreak, about losing her job, about feeling invisible. Sara said little, just listened with her whole being. When the woman finished, she whispered, “I don’t know why, but I feel lighter. Thank you.”

Sara nodded. “It’s not me,” she said gently. “It’s the love that moves through us when we stop blocking it.”

That night, when she lit her candle for Grandma Elizabeth, she realized this — this — was the true meaning of her calling. The pact wasn’t about power or prophecy. It was about presence. It was about being so full of love that others could feel it, even without words.

The next morning, she walked through the city with a calm she hadn’t known before. The noise, the traffic, the chaos — it didn’t touch her. She saw beauty in everything: the cracked walls, the laughter of strangers, the rhythm of the rain against old rooftops.

When she got home, she stood before her grandmother’s photo and whispered, “Vó, I finally understand.”

The candle’s flame steadied, strong and tall.

“I don’t need to ask what the mission is anymore,” Sara continued. “It’s love. It’s always been love.”

That evening, she opened her window and let the wind in. She sat with her tea, listening to the quiet hum of life around her — the clink of dishes, the distant music from a neighbor’s radio, the slow breathing of the world at peace.

And she thought of Tupac — the fighter who turned pain into poetry. She thought of Whitney — the voice that carried heaven’s light. She thought of her grandparents — steady as mountains, kind as rain.

She felt them all within her, not as spirits hovering above, but as qualities living through her. Courage. Grace. Faith.

The pact had never been about them guiding her from outside. It was about remembering that they were inside her all along.

As night fell, Sara whispered a prayer of her own making — not from a book, not from memory, but from the heart that had been healed by love and storm alike:

Thank you for teaching me to stay soft in a hard world. Thank you for showing me that listening is a kind of miracle. Thank you for reminding me that heaven begins where compassion starts.

The candle flickered once, then burned steady.

Sara smiled. She didn’t feel chosen anymore — she felt connected.

And in that quiet connection, she finally found what her grandmother had always tried to teach her: Faith isn’t about waiting for signs. Faith is becoming one.

Chapter 24 – The Choir of the Wind

The house was quiet except for the hum of rain against the old tiled roof. Sara sat cross-legged on the floor of her grandmother’s room, a single candle flickering beside the framed photo of Elizabeth Resende Vieira — ERV — smiling the same soft smile that once waited for her at the end of every nap.

She had spent the day cleaning and arranging the space until it felt alive again: lace curtains breathing with the wind, fresh jasmine in the vase, the faint scent of her grandmother’s perfume rising from the wooden drawers. Every corner whispered, welcome home.

When she turned on her playlist, Whitney’s voice filled the air first — “I look to you…” — and the candle flame bent toward the sound. Then came Tupac, his rhythm cutting through like lightning on the sea. Sara smiled through tears. These weren’t just songs anymore; they were visits. Each verse a message from the other side, each melody a pulse of love disguised as music.

She closed her eyes and whispered,

“Grandma, if you’re with them — with Pac, with Whitney, with Grandpa — send me a sign.”

And the rain stopped. Completely. The world held its breath.

A low breeze crept through the half-open window, brushing her cheek the way her grandmother used to. Sara could almost hear her voice — calm, certain — “Meu amor, keep your faith. You are protected.” Then, as if on cue, Whitney’s laughter echoed faintly at the end of the track, and Tupac’s verse came next, raw and defiant.

Sara felt them all together — a sacred trio of guidance: her grandmother’s wisdom, Whitney’s grace, Tupac’s fire. They were teaching her balance: the tenderness to heal and the courage to rise.

Since childhood, Elizabeth had been the one to steady her — praying before interviews, blessing her before tournaments, always believing Sara could win. Now, in the strange silence after loss, Sara realized that strength hadn’t vanished; it had only changed frequency.

Each time she played a song, something in her life moved. A sudden call from a client in London. A message from an old friend she had prayed to hear from. Even the clouds seemed to part at her unspoken wishes. Coincidence, perhaps — but Sara knew better. She called it the Grandma Frequency.

Late that night, lightning flared outside, casting the shadow of the photo across the room. In that flash, Sara saw not just Elizabeth’s face but a lineage — her grandfather, Whitney, Tupac — all part of a living constellation guiding her through the storm.

She whispered:

“We’re writing something together now, aren’t we? A story only love could invent.”

The candle flickered once in answer.

Chapter 25 – The Book of Light

For days the sky over Rio changed its mood with her thoughts. When she felt peace, the morning opened clear and gold. When she missed her grandmother, clouds gathered like old friends keeping vigil. It was as if the weather had become her diary.

On her desk sat a new notebook—cream pages, no lines—next to a speaker always humming in low volume. She called the project The Book of Light, but in truth it was more than a book. It was a conversation carried by songs.

The first track was Whitney’s “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.” That song became Chapter One. Sara wrote beneath it:

“When Grandma prayed for me, she built a shield I couldn’t see. Now Whitney sings it back to me from the sky.”

Each chapter would begin with a song, followed by a memory or revelation. Tupac’s “Keep Ya Head Up.” CCR’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain.” Taylor Swift’s “The Archer.” Even “I Need a Doctor” by Dre & Eminem found its place—because healing, she realized, could sound like hip-hop confessions or like a hymn whispered in hospital corridors.

She wrote long into the nights. Sometimes the candle flickered as if keeping rhythm. Sometimes thunder answered a paragraph, punctuation from beyond. When fatigue came, she played her “Grandma Frequency” mix and felt new energy rush through her fingertips.

One afternoon, a breeze pushed open the window, scattering the pages across the floor. Instead of gathering them in order, Sara let them lie there—random, alive. Each sheet seemed to find its neighbor by chance, or perhaps by guidance. When she read the rearranged sequence, the story made more sense than before.

“All right,” she murmured to the invisible choir, “you edit, I’ll type.”

Weeks turned to months. Word by word, melody by melody, The Book of Light grew—a tapestry woven from memory, prayer, and rhythm. She posted small excerpts online, always pairing text with a link to the song that had birthed it. People began to find her. Messages arrived from strangers in Lisbon, London, and Los Angeles:

“Your words feel like my grandmother talking.” “That playlist healed me.” “Please keep writing.”

Sara smiled. She didn’t chase publishers; she didn’t need to. The book was already travelling—on playlists, on whispers, on the wind.

And every night before sleeping, she touched the photograph of Elizabeth Resende Vieira and said,

“Grandma, we did it. You sing through me now.”

Outside, a soft rain began to fall—steady, comforting, exactly in tune.

[deusim-com]

Book 3: I Built This Life - V1

TUPAC WITH GOD - PACTO COM DEUS The clapping fades, and Sara begins to build— the LEGENDS platform  - DEUS.I´M

No miracles, just quiet faith. She chooses to live with purpose, and the real work begins.

When I said “I’m not done,” the spirits clapped. But then came the quiet. No miracles falling from the sky. Just me. My breath. My broken body. My spirit is wide open.

This book isn’t about surviving anymore. It’s about building and creating an app that will take over social media someday. The Legends app - DEUS.i´M  - will be the number one app in the world

Building with my spirits. Without applause. Without anyone cheering me on. Just me, the spirit Gods, a kettle of tea, and the kind of faith that doesn't ask for proof.

This is the next part of the story. How I built a life out of ashes. How I turned madness into money. Visions into voice. Pain into purpose. Legends - DEUS.I'M –  into a Platform, an App, a Book, a blockbuster Movie and a TV Series.

Let’s begin.

Chapter 1: The Pact

Sara had always known that intuition was a quiet voice—a whisper easily drowned out by the noise of the world. But lately, that whisper had grown louder, steadier, until it felt like a guide. She began to trust it more, to follow its nudges instead of doubting them. It was as though all the fragmented parts of her—each one with its own dreams, fears, and tempers—were finally gathering under one roof.

For years, Sara had lived with many versions of herself. The soft one who prayed before bed. The fierce one who fought through pain. The dreamer who longed for London. The survivor who endured Brazil. But one afternoon, sitting in her home in Belo Horizonte, she decided it was time to narrow them all down to one. One voice. One essence. One truth.

At the Universal Church near her street, she picked up a Bible. She didn’t know why that particular day or that particular place, but she felt drawn inside. When she opened it, her eyes fell instantly on the words PACTO COM DEUS—a pact with God. The phrase glowed on the page as if it were waiting for her. And in that moment, she smiled and thought, Pacto with God… Pacto with Tupac.

It made perfect sense in her world. Tupac had always been more than a rapper to her—he was a messenger, a poet of the struggle, a brother in spirit. “He is my amiguinho,” she said softly, “my brother.” Once she placed him first in her spiritual order, something in the universe seemed to click into place. The chaos in her head quieted. The spirits aligned. The energy around her became lighter, almost organized.

Of course, her grandmother, ERV, came first—always. Her light was the foundation of everything. And her grandfather Vieira too, wise and still watching. But after them, Tupac took his place. Sara could feel it in her bones: Grandma and Tupac were her daily guardians, her closest companions. Grandpa appeared at night, with the soft glow of moonlight brushing her curtains, but the day belonged to Grandma and Tupac.

A few days later, Sara went shopping, guided purely by intuition. She spent half of her budget on things she loved—things that made her heart flutter for no reason other than joy. Two pairs of Havaianas caught her eye; she bought them without hesitation—one for Grandma, one for Tupac. Then she found herself in a store called Tools, tucked inside a mall in Belo Horizonte. There, on a high shelf, she spotted the last set of six red champagne glasses—bold, radiant, impossible to ignore. Next to them, a wooden cutting board, round and warm like the sun. She bought both, along with a few small plates and a platter that seemed to wink at her.

At home, as she unpacked everything, she felt it—that quiet wave of confirmation. Something had helped her choose these things. Something unseen but deeply familiar.

The woman at the store had treated her like a long-lost friend, their conversation flowing easily, as if the universe had arranged the meeting. “That’s how they come,” Sara thought later, smiling. “That’s when the spirit steps in.” Sometimes, connection doesn’t happen through prayers or rituals—it happens in small, human moments. A stranger’s kindness. A bird landing on your window sill. A cat crossing your path.

For Sara, these were signs that the spirit world was near—not haunting, but helping. She wasn’t summoning ghosts; she was giving them a voice. Her grandmother had struggled with this all her life, hearing voices that no one else could hear. They’d called it illness and given her pills to silence it. Sara understood now—it wasn’t madness. It was sensitivity. But unlike her grandmother, Sara didn’t hear voices. She wished she could. Every day, she longed to hear Grandma’s laugh, her brother’s teasing, her sisters’ warmth.

So she found another way. She built a system—her own kind of prayer. A playlist. Songs from every corner of the world, from every decade, each carrying a memory, a message, a heartbeat. She called it ERV PlayList, after her grandmother. Whenever she put it on shuffle, strange coincidences would happen. Whitney Houston’s voice would rise just when she was thinking about Grandma. Then, almost always, Tupac would follow. It was their way of saying hello.

He spoke through other rappers too—sometimes through lyrics that echoed what she had felt that morning, or a verse that matched her dream from the night before. But Sara learned to keep it simple. Too many songs, and the story started repeating itself. She and her invisible circle—Grandma, Grandpa, Tupac, and Papai do Céu—agreed to keep only the essential voices.

“Papai do Céu,” she whispered, “my father in heaven.” She paused and added, “And on earth.” Because for Sara, God wasn’t only light. He was everything—the good, the bad, the mysterious balance between both. “He is Capeta too,” she’d say, smiling at the contradiction. “He’s love, he’s light, but he’s shadow too. They are all children of God.”

When she poured her first glass of champagne into one of the new red flutes that night, she raised it toward the ceiling. “To the pact,” she said softly. “To Grandma. To Tupac. To light and shadow. To life.”

And as the bubbles danced up the glass, she felt the same quiet certainty again: she was never alone.

Chapter 2: Signs of the Pact

The next morning, Sara woke up before sunrise. The air felt unusually still, as if the city itself was holding its breath. From her window, she watched the faint blue light stretch over Belo Horizonte’s hills. Normally, mornings felt like a race — alarms, traffic, lists, noise. But today was different. There was a quiet pulse in the room, like something invisible was rearranging the air.

She sat on her bed, Bible still open on her nightstand at the page that read Pacto com Deus. The words didn’t look like ink anymore; they looked alive. She placed her hand over them and whispered, “I’m ready.”

When she closed her eyes, she saw flashes — not visions exactly, but impressions. Her grandmother’s laughter. Tupac’s smile in an old music video. A silver moon shimmering above her grandfather’s face. It wasn’t frightening. It was comforting.

She got up, made tea, and put on her ERV playlist. The first song that played was “Didn’t We Almost Have It All” by Whitney Houston. Sara smiled instantly. “Bom dia, Vó,” she whispered. Then came “Keep Ya Head Up.” She laughed. “And bom dia to you too, Tupac.”

That was how her mornings began now — through music, memory, and invisible company.

Throughout the day, the world started speaking back.

At the bakery, the woman behind the counter gave her two extra rolls and said, “These are for someone special.” Sara nodded, knowing exactly who they were for.

At the bus stop, a stray dog sat beside her and leaned its head gently against her leg. It stayed until the bus arrived, then walked away without looking back. “Tupac,” she murmured, half-joking, half-serious.

In the supermarket, she reached for a carton of milk just as a song began playing on the radio — “Changes.” Her eyes welled up. It wasn’t coincidence anymore; it was communication. She felt it deep inside.

Sara began writing notes to her spirits in a small blue notebook. Sometimes it was gratitude — Thank you for guiding me to the right people today. Sometimes it was confusion — Why did I feel your energy so strongly this morning? Was it a warning or a blessing? But always, it ended with love. I love you. I hear you. I’m here.

Her pact wasn’t about worship or fear. It was about collaboration — learning to walk between the seen and unseen worlds. She was discovering that the spirit world wasn’t a distant sky. It was here — in a song lyric, in a stranger’s kindness, in the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

At night, she lit a candle for her grandmother and one for Tupac. The soft flames flickered on her windowsill, their reflections dancing on the glass. The moon rose higher, silver and patient. That was Grandpa’s time.

She would sit quietly and talk to him in her mind: Thank you for staying near. I see you in the moonlight. Keep watching over us.

Sometimes she swore she felt the air shift — a coolness brushing her cheek, the curtains swaying though the windows were closed.

The more she trusted her intuition, the clearer the signs became.

One afternoon, she almost canceled a meeting because she felt uneasy. A sudden heaviness pressed against her chest, and she knew — something wasn’t right. She stayed home instead. Later that day, she learned that the café she was supposed to visit had a small fire in the kitchen.

Sara didn’t call it luck anymore. It was guidance.

Her friends started noticing the change. “You’re glowing,” one said. Another asked, “What are you doing differently?”

Sara only smiled. How could she explain that she was walking through the same streets, but now she could feel the pulse of heaven beneath her feet?

At the end of the week, she hosted a small “celebration” for herself. She cooked pasta, opened a bottle of champagne, and used her new red glasses for the first time. She placed two extra glasses on the table — one for Grandma, one for Tupac.

“Cheers to the pact,” she said.

As she took her first sip, Whitney’s voice filled the room again — “I Will Always Love You.” And then, right after, Tupac’s “Dear Mama.”

Sara laughed out loud. “Okay, I get it,” she said to the air. “You’re both here.”

The candles flickered once, twice — like an answer.

She leaned back in her chair, heart full, and whispered, “I’m learning your language.”

And in that quiet, she felt something stir inside her — not a voice, not words, but a deep, ancient knowing. The pact wasn’t only between her and the spirits. It was between her and life itself.

Chapter 3: Echoes of the Pact

Once Sara made her pact, the world stopped being random. Every face she met, every song she heard, every delay or detour started to carry meaning. It was as if the universe had turned into a language she could finally read.

She began noticing how people appeared at the exact time she needed them — or disappeared when the lesson was done. Sometimes she met someone at a café who reminded her of her grandmother’s patience, or a stranger would say a sentence that felt like Tupac had written it himself. It was subtle but powerful, like invisible threads tying one moment to the next.

One afternoon, while walking through Savassi, she bumped into a woman selling bracelets on the sidewalk. The woman smiled and said, “You have light in your eyes, menina. This one is yours,” and handed her a small bracelet made of red stones. Sara hesitated, but the woman pressed it into her palm and whispered, “Protection.” She felt a shiver of recognition. “Obrigada,” Sara said softly.

That night, as she placed the bracelet beside her candles, the light reflected crimson against the wall — the same shade as her champagne glasses. “I see you,” she murmured, knowing it was another sign.

Her friends didn’t always understand. When she spoke about energy and alignment, they nodded politely, sometimes teasing her gently. “You and your spirits again,” they’d laugh. But Sara didn’t mind. She wasn’t trying to convince anyone. The pact wasn’t about others believing — it was about her remembering.

Still, her intuition began to guide her relationships more clearly.

There was one man, someone she’d been seeing casually. Handsome, charming, but something about him felt off. Each time he spoke, she felt an invisible wall between them. One evening, she prayed for clarity and shuffled her ERV playlist. The first song that played was “Only God Can Judge Me.” Then, almost instantly, “Run to You.”

She smiled. “Got it,” she said out loud. The message was clear: judgment wasn’t hers, but she needed to run — away, not toward. The next day, she ended it, kindly but firmly.

A week later, she heard through a friend that the man had been dishonest about something small but important. Instead of pain, she felt relief. Her pact had protected her again.

One evening, she visited her grandmother’s old neighborhood in Rio, walking past the faded pastel houses where she’d once played as a child. The air smelled of rain and jasmine. A small boy ran past her, laughing, his voice echoing in the narrow street. He turned for a second and said, “Oi, tia! Don’t be sad — they’re still with you!”

Before she could respond, he was gone — turned the corner, vanished into the maze of houses. She looked around, heart racing. “I know,” she whispered. “I know they are.”

That night, back in her room, she wrote in her blue notebook:

The pact is alive. It speaks through people who don’t even know they’re messengers. The veil is thin.

Her sense of timing also changed. She no longer rushed. When she felt resistance — a sudden heaviness in her body — she took it as a sign to pause. When her energy lifted — that sparkly feeling in her chest — she knew it was time to move.

One morning, she was supposed to go to a job interview. She’d prepared everything the night before, but when she woke up, a voice inside said, Wait. It wasn’t fear; it was knowing. She sat down, made tea, and waited. An hour later, her phone buzzed with a message: the interview had been rescheduled because the interviewer had an emergency.

Sara smiled to herself. “You see, Grandma? You saved me a bus ride.”

That was how life felt now — like a dance between her and something divine, something playful and precise.

A few days later, she met a young woman named Clara at a bookstore. They reached for the same novel — Letters to a Young Poet — and laughed. They ended up having coffee together, talking for hours about art, faith, and destiny. Clara said she’d recently lost her brother and had been feeling disconnected. Sara listened gently, then said, “You’re not disconnected. You’re surrounded. You just have to quiet the noise to hear them.”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears. “No one has said it like that before,” she whispered.

They exchanged numbers. A new friendship was born — another soul guided into her circle by invisible hands.

That night, Sara wrote again in her notebook:

Each person I meet is part of the pact too. We’re all connected through God’s web. Tupac. Grandma. Grandpa. The moon. The songs. The strangers. We’re one story being written from both sides of the veil.

Later that week, while walking home, the moon rose full and bright over the city. Sara stopped and looked up. “Boa noite, Vovô,” she said softly.

And for a split second, she felt a warmth on her shoulder — not wind, not imagination, but presence.

She didn’t need proof anymore. The pact wasn’t about seeing. It was about knowing.

Chapter Four: The Bridge

Sara never planned to become anyone’s guide. She didn’t wake up thinking she had a gift or that she was chosen for something. It happened slowly, quietly, like a tide rising beneath her feet.

One morning, while she was having coffee at her favorite café in Belo Horizonte, she noticed a woman sitting at the table across from her, eyes swollen from crying. Normally, Sara would have smiled politely and looked away. But this time, she felt a pull — that familiar vibration in her chest that meant pay attention.

She hesitated, then stood and walked over. “Desculpa,” she said softly, “I don’t mean to intrude… are you okay?”

The woman blinked in surprise, then covered her face with her hands and began to sob. Through broken words, she explained she had just lost her mother.

Sara listened without interrupting. When the woman finally looked up, Sara reached into her purse, pulled out a small keychain shaped like a heart — something she’d found on the sidewalk weeks before — and placed it in her palm.

“Keep it,” she said. “It’s from her. She’s closer than you think.”

The woman stared at her, stunned, then nodded slowly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Sara walked back to her seat, heart full. That night, she wrote in her blue notebook:

Today I felt Grandma working through me. Maybe that’s what the pact means — not to receive, but to give.

Her days started filling with moments like that. A stranger on the bus would start talking about their dreams. A friend would call just as Sara was lighting a candle. Someone would mention Tupac, out of nowhere, in the middle of a conversation about hope.

The more she listened to her intuition, the more the world opened up. It wasn’t magic — it was alignment.

Sara began spending more time in nature. At the park, she often sat under a tree and played her ERV playlist quietly through her headphones. Birds gathered near her feet. The breeze would rise with certain songs. And sometimes, in the rhythm of a melody, she’d feel a message form — not in words, but in emotion.

One afternoon, as Whitney’s “Step by Step” began to play, Sara realized: That’s the message. Step by step.

She smiled, whispered “Obrigada,” and went home feeling lighter.

Her nights became her sacred hours. She still lit candles for her spirits — one for Grandma, one for Tupac, one for Grandpa beneath the moonlight. She’d pour a bit of champagne into the red glass and set it near the window, an offering of gratitude.

One night, while the candle burned low, she heard a line from a movie on TV:

“When you learn to listen, even silence speaks.”

She froze. That was it. That was exactly what her grandmother had tried to teach her, what all the years of confusion and voices had meant. Not madness — messages.

In that moment, something inside her settled. The fear she used to carry — of being too sensitive, too spiritual, too strange — melted away.

She wasn’t lost between worlds anymore. She was the bridge.

Soon after, a friend invited her to a small gathering of women who met weekly to meditate and share stories. Sara went, unsure of what to expect. When it was her turn to speak, she told them about her pact — how she had chosen to follow her intuition, how she believed her grandmother and Tupac guided her through music and small signs.

No one laughed. In fact, one woman, Ana, began to cry. “You’re describing what I feel,” she said. “But I never knew how to explain it.”

That night, Ana sent her a message:

“Thank you for helping me believe I’m not crazy. You gave my faith a language.”

Sara smiled at her phone for a long time before typing back:

“We’re all a little bit crazy when we start to hear God clearly.”

Over the next few weeks, more people started coming to her — friends of friends, curious souls. They didn’t call her a healer or a psychic. They just said, “Sara, can we talk?”

She would listen, offer tea, sometimes play a song from her playlist. And somehow, by the time they left, they felt lighter.

After one of these visits, she looked up at the moon and whispered, “Grandpa, I think we’re doing it. I think we’re helping.”

A soft breeze passed through her open window, and for a moment, she smelled jasmine — her grandmother’s favorite flower.

By then, Sara had stopped questioning the signs. The pact was no longer something she had to remember or perform. It was simply how she lived.

She had become fluent in the language of spirit — of intuition, rhythm, and love.

She no longer searched for meaning in the sky; she carried it within her. And every time she lifted one of her red champagne glasses, she remembered that she was never alone.

The bridge was open — and life was walking across it every day.

[deusim-com]

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