This land, once vibrant and bustling, now seems engulfed in an oppressive silence, broken only by the constant roar of the rain and the menacing drumming of hail. For days, the sky has fallen upon us, transforming valleys into waterfalls, roads into raging rivers, and the familiar landscape into an apocalyptic tableau of grey and menace. It’s a Red Code for floods across much of Romania, with warnings of even worse to come, and the heavy rain is severely impacting my work. Every drop of water, every lightning bolt that streaks across the horizon, seems to scream in my ears that time is running out, that opportunities are being lost.

I find myself here, in the heart of Transylvania, in an area I believed to be an oasis of relative calm, a place where one could still breathe clean air and, more importantly, where one could still think freely. My plan was clear, almost poetic in its simplicity: to plant the seeds of truth in the most unexpected places. To leave small messages, clues, discreet invitations for those with open eyes and minds. Small pieces of paper, cryptic codes (those QR codes I’ve mentioned before), hidden on old walls, in solitary parks, in forgotten books in cafes and provincial libraries, in deserted bus stations. I wanted to weave an invisible web of calls, a network of contact points for those who feel that something is not right with the reality served to us.

I sought, above all, to connect with those spirits aligned with the Light Seekers Division, with those who feel a profound attraction to the Sanctuary of Wisdom. You know, those who are not content with illusions, who question, who seek meaning beyond the constant noise of the modern world. I was convinced that, through these physical “seeds,” carefully planted in diverse locations, I could reach those lost souls, eager for Truth.

But nature, or perhaps another force, had other plans. The rain began to fall torrentially a few days ago. Not an ordinary rain, but one of those biblical ones that never stops. The city, the roads, everything is under water. You can’t leave the house without risking being swept away by the water or hit by walnut-sized hail. The streets are deserted. People stay barricaded in their homes, fearing floods, fallen trees, power outages. How can I plant invitations when no one is going out? How can I hope someone will find them when everything is a torrent of water and mud? Every piece of paper would be obliterated, every code rendered illegible.

And, as if the physical storm wasn’t enough, I’m encountering another form of blockage, equally cold and implacable: the digital wall. I tried to transmit the message online. To write about what I feel, about the need to connect, about the signs foretelling change. I tried to share fragments of the knowledge I’ve accumulated, to open a window to the Sanctuary of Wisdom. But it’s all in vain.

Every post I make, regardless of the platform, seems to hit an invisible wall. Texts disappear, links are deactivated, my accounts are “shadowbanned” – that sinister term meaning your message is visible only to you, a whisper in the void. I feel as if I’m shouting into a deep cave, with no echo. When I do manage to post something, the number of views is minuscule. Algorithms are like silent, omnipresent guardians, filtering, distorting, suppressing.

Someone doesn’t want the Truth to spread. Someone doesn’t want people to connect, to unite. They thrive on division and ignorance. The constant noise of fake news, manufactured controversies, superficial entertainment is a perfect wall. And now, nature itself seems to aid them in this purpose, physically isolating us.

I’ve begun to believe that this rain, this hail, this fury of the elements is not just a meteorological event. It’s a curtain, a barrier intentionally placed to prevent us from acting, from meeting, from organizing. A dual strategy: physical blockage and digital blockage.

Despair is beginning to creep in, I admit. I feel isolated, alone, with an urgent message I cannot convey. It’s as if my hands are tied, and my voice has been stolen.

Therefore, if by some chance these lines manage to pass through the filters, through the algorithmic barriers, through the rain that isolates us, I implore you:

Please, if you read this, if my message has reached you, do not let it die here.

Share it! Spread it everywhere! Make it known in all corners of the internet, on all platforms you can access! Talk about it with those you trust!

Perhaps my voice is suppressed, but your voices, united, could be a choir too powerful to be silenced. This is not just my call; it is the call of Truth itself, fighting to emerge into the light.

I hope that somewhere, someone, has already found those mysterious invitations I managed to place before this deluge, or has seen my clues online, before they were swallowed by the shadows. I hope that Truth finds its way.

With tattered, but undiminished hope, Elysium