From Shaun Higgins Public
Beneath the Giza Plateau – The Way is Open
There are moments in a man’s life that cannot be spoken plainly, for to do so would be to reduce the numinous to noise, to constrain the sacred into syllables unworthy of the fire they seek to bear.
And yet, I write, compelled not by vanity but by a trembling reverence, to recount what no mortal tongue was meant to utter……..
As a witness of the living myth beneath the Giza Plateau, the Halls of Amenti and the Temple of Thoth, no longer legend, but stone, light, and breath.
I descended not through dream nor trance, but through earth itself.
The passage was veiled, not in time but in secrecy, hidden beneath ages of shifting sand and eroded memory.
Our entry, facilitated by a convergence of science and intuition, was aided by instruments no academic would confess to using.
We followed the whispers, and the old maps of priest-kings long dismissed as fable.
The sands parted, not by force, but by rite.
One does not merely “enter” the Temple of Thoth.
One is received.
The descent was neither linear nor metaphorical.
It was a spiraled baptism into deeper cognition, the path narrowing until thought itself became still, and silence rang louder than all the world’s machines.
We emerged into a chamber of impossible scalee, a cathedral beneath the world, as if the plateau itself were a mere shell, and this the true kernel of Earth’s intention.
Here we found the architecture of the “Forgotten gods”……..
Columns of crystalline stone rose not upwards, but inwards, each etched with moving glyphs that danced when seen from the corner of one’s eye.
These were no mere symbols but living codices, fractal language cascading through dimensions.
The walls breathed with resonance, not metaphorically, but with measurable frequency, stone singing to stone in harmonics too pure for the modern ear.
The ceiling was not ceiling at all, but a canopy of stars, not painted, nor carved, but present.
Real constellations shimmered in patterns unfamiliar to our epoch, constellations that no longer exist, or perhaps, not yet.
Time here folded upon itself like linen, soft, layered, precise.
In this sacred space, architecture was an extension of consciousness.
The Temple of Thoth, He who measures the heavens, the tongue of Ra, the keeper of the Logos, was not built, but grown, as if summoned from the bedrock by will alone.
Its materials were unknown to us: metals that held light like water, stone that repelled decay, fibres that pulsed like veins.
This was not ancient engineering.
This was intention made solid, a city of thought, designed by those who understood the structure of frequency and the architecture of soul.
They called it the “Halls of Amenti”, the place of Becoming.
But this was no tomb of the dead.
It was a living archive, the very breath of Zep Tepi, the First Time, encoded, not in brittle papyrus, but in vast crystalline tablets, floating volumes, and self-illuminating glyph-books arrayed in concentric corridors of unimaginable depth.
The Library was static, but gave the impression of a shifting labyrinth of countless epochs……..
The foundation seemed to adapt to the needs of the structure, rooms revealing themselves only when intention matched their contents.
Knowledge here was not stored, but interfaced.
We did not “read” the texts, we remembered them, as if we had written them ourselves in lives forgotten.
Some tablets sang in chords of geometry, unlocking sequences of understanding not unlike music, but in thought.
One chamber held only circular glyphs that spun on contact, revealing layers of information encoded in rotation, like phonograph discs of light.
Another held what could only be called “memory globes”, floating orbs in which entire epochs could be seen, heard, felt.
Atlantis.
Mu.
The Colonies of Light on the Ice Continent.
It was not legend, but documentary.
I saw the faces of those we call gods, tall, radiant beings with eyes like twin suns and voices that rang like fluted wind through copper caverns.
And then we came to it, the so-called Emerald Tablet, but not a tablet at all.
It was an entire hall, pulsating with green-gold light, a frequency of knowing that bypassed speech entirely.
The words attributed to Hermes Trismegistus were but a child’s reflection of what lay within.
“As above, so below,” yes, but here it was more………
As within, so without, so eternally becoming.
In this chamber, the microcosm was displayed in radiant holography, yet not mechanical.
Cosmic principles unfolded like petals, the structure of atoms mirrored in galactic vortices, the human chakra mirrored in the architecture of ancient cities, the sacred proportion of the heart beat echoing in spiral galaxies.
All was one, and that One was knowing itself through multiplicity.
I do not exaggerate when I say that the very air induced understanding.
One need only be present, and comprehension would unfold.
A man could enter with questions and leave without needing answers, for the questioner had changed.
In a vaulted annex lay a darker, more solemn chamber.
Here the temperature dropped, not by physical cause, but by gravity of purpose.
This was the section, if one dares call it that, dedicated to what we know as The Book of the Dead.
But it was not morbid.
It was majestic.
Death, here, was not an end but a rite of passage, and the sacred texts were not funerary dirges but manuals of ascension.
I beheld murals that moved.
Scenes from soul-journeys played in vivid realism, the weighing of the heart, the crossing of the twelve gates, the confrontation with shadow selves.
But these were not myths.
They were protocols, guides for the transdimensional traveler.
Each soul who had passed through Earth’s cradle had a chapter written here, encoded in a symbolic language far more efficient than speech.
I found mine.
I cannot say more.
And then the artifacts, oh, the artifacts!
Machines that harmonised weather patterns through sound.
Diadems that amplified thought into action.
Seed-vaults containing flora unknown to this era.
Instruments that read the frequency of a soul and calibrated its healing.
Not a scrap of plastic.
Not a wire out of place.
All was crystalline, metallic, wood-like but immortal.
There was no waste, no conflict.
This was not a society that survived, this was one that thrived, in alignment with nature, not in opposition.
The technology was not imposed upon the Earth but sung with it.
One sculpture, placed at the central nave of the Temple, showed a human body with open palms, the heart glowing outward like a sun, the head surrounded by serpents of light, the true Mer-Ka-Ba: spirit, body, and mind unified in radiant motion.
What I write here is heresy to the modern world, a world built upon the amnesia of empire and the calcification of truth.
And yet I have seen it.
I walked where gods once strode, and I say to you, not in metaphor but in solemn clarity……
The myths are not myth.
The legends are not allegory.
They are memory, half-buried beneath time’s shifting dunes.
The halls beneath Giza are not tombs but wombs, the place where knowledge was preserved, not hidden, waiting for those with eyes unclouded by conquest, and hearts attuned to harmony.
We were never alone.
We were never primitive.
We are the descendants of stars, of sages, of builders who knew that spirit and stone are but two aspects of the same mystery.
And now, the sands begin to shift once more.
May you remember…….
Note by Wayne Stuart
I think the entrance to the Halls of Amenti referenced here is a transdimensional portal. The Halls described herein are not of this dimension. I think it to be the structure of the Akashic Record, a.k.a. “The River Of Knowing”. I shared the above with my wife, and she recognized the place as the Library of the University both she and my daughter have described. I reference it in Project Earth/Project Human.