Hebatallah: a gift of God. A name that has always felt like both a weight and a lantern. To carry a word so archaic is to live inside its etymology, to be forever asking what it means to be a gift, what it means to belong to the divine.
My journey has been one of continual unravelling and becoming, always seeking the marrow of meaning.
This is my alchemy, my way of remembering what we were before the forgetting. And words are my chosen companions, I stalk their origins, peel back their skins, and listen for the tremors in their bones. In their fractures, I find forgotten stories, syllables that weep, syllables that burn.
I write in devotion to the unseen: to the trembling currents of spirits, to the silence in the gasps, to the secrets that forbid the light. I write as an invocation, I summon words, coaxing out the phantom voices and hidden chambers each soul carries.
I am offering a shard of mirror, a crystal sphere, a door left ajar. Step closer, if you are curious. The world I write is not gentle, but it is true, and in its depths, you may glimpse pieces of yourself too.
Do you feel tempted to face what is staring back at you? Step through. Schedule a call, or simply message me.
Hebatallah 