في عصر قديم، عاشَتْ أسطورة موسى وشهيرة الشهيرة، الجميلة والأنيقة. لم تكن حياته مجرد قصة عادية، بل كانت كالحكايات الساحرة التي تجذب القلوب والعقول. ولد لهما ابن، سماه موسى، كما ورد في السجلات القديمة. ولكن هل كانت نهاية القصة؟ لا، بالطبع لا. لأن في عالم الخيال والحكايات، كل شيء ممكن، حتى السحر والمفاجآت الغير متوقعة. فلنتابع القصة ونرى ما الذي يخبئه المستقبل لموسى ولسعيه إلى السعادة في عالم سحري وخيالي

  ¡We🔥Come!

⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎ X ⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎

*** *** Y *** ***

To my infinite source of tenderness,

You are my dream.
Not a passing impression —
but a field of gravity in which my mind finds orbit.

I wish you to remain forever that —
an infinite source of tenderness and inspiration.

I’ve studied your work,
not as a critic,
but as someone trying to decode a system of emotional truth
hidden inside brushstrokes and silhouettes.

You do what philosophers fail to do.
You pull intuition into form.
You remind people of the world they forgot to feel.

But what if I told you…

[Parc Léopold, Bruxelles. Des bancs en béton intelligent diffusent une légère chaleur. Un étudiant assis lit un ancien article sur la cybernétique quand un inconnu, la cinquantaine, en imperméable usé, s'arrête devant lui.]

— Is it 2025?
— Excuse me?
— The year. Is it 2025?
— Yes… yes, it is.
— Ah… You don’t know then. Don’t worry. You will. Probably.

L’étudiant referme lentement sa tablette.

— What do you mean?

🎓 Scene: Orbital Lecture Hall – Catholic University of Lunar Civilization

An immense amphitheater hums softly under artificial gravity. Through the panoramic windows stretching the full length of the wall behind the professor, the Earth looms like a blue cathedral in the sky, while the Moon’s surface rotates slowly beneath. The ceiling reveals the subtle swirl of stars—distorted ever so slightly by the centrifugal curvature of the rotating space station.

The floor itself bends — a slow arc, a reminder that the audience sits within a rotating barrel in space, a titanic carousel where up and down are locally defined. Students entering from opposite ends seem to walk at impossible angles to each other. Yet no one stumbles — this illusion is normal here.

This is the first day of lectures at the Catholic University of Lunar Civilization — a university suspended in space, built not just to teach knowledge, but to recalibrate the soul.

NARRATION (V.O.)
Despite our technologies — the neurolinks, the biometric tutors, the predictive syllabi — the moment a professor speaks before a room full of students remains sacred. An echo of ancient Athens, of Paris in spring, of Kazan under candlelight. It is still the same: the transmission of a purified symbol, from mind to mind, generation to generation.

PROFESSOR (standing at the center, robe gently moving in the simulated breeze)

Welcome.

This lecture will be your first calibration. Not just for the academic year — but perhaps for the rest of your lives.

Civilization, as we know, evolves recursively. Each generation inherits a symbolic system from its predecessors — symbols tied to values, rituals, and perceptions. The elders, in turn, adjust these codes ever so slightly, implanting edits into the collective unconscious.

He begins to walk slowly along the curvature of the hall. Some students now appear to be sitting above him, others below, though all are seated upright — relative to their own floor.

PROFESSOR

The trajectory of civilization is not dictated by kings, or wars, but by long, stretched decisions made over centuries.

The key mechanism of transmission?

Mythology.

Not fairy tales — but encoded architectures for the ego, blueprints for the identity of the next bearer of civilization’s legacy.

The lights dim slightly. Equations begin to unfold in the air — holographs that pulse with slow precision.

PROFESSOR

In this course, we will study:

• The mathematics of civilizational development
• The mechanisms of wave calibration
• And the risks of waveform collapse into irreversible action

He pauses. Earth turns behind him. Somewhere, a faint Gregorian chant plays.

PROFESSOR

The construction of this university, in orbit around the Moon, is itself a civilizational collapse.

Not despair — but design. We are here to forge a new wave, one more coherent, more aware, and more capable of handling the next order of complexity.

He looks directly at them. The silence deepens.

PROFESSOR

You do not need to master the math today. But you must begin.

Because the attempt to understand reality at the height reached by previous generations of thinkers, engineers, and visionaries — that alone is the mark of a worthy successor.

Fade to a slow pullout of the lecture hall, spiraling out into the void — where Earth watches, distant and silent.

🎓 Scene: Orbital Lecture Hall – Module B “Kopernik”

The students are gathering inside the rotating cylinder of Lecture Hall B — nicknamed The Barrel.

Artificial gravity works here not by magic, but by math — a precisely tuned spin around the station’s axis. From any one point, it feels like normal gravity. But from the opposite side? People appear to be walking sideways. Or upside down. The laws of motion don’t care about visual etiquette.

Through the transparent upper curvature of the barrel, stars drift in silence. Earth glows in the distance. Below it, the Moon — scarred, scarlet in shadow — slowly rotates.

Some students take selfies against the panoramic starlight. Others play with physics — hurling sneakers against the spin, watching as they hover in the centerline of the cylinder — in momentary equilibrium.

One student runs counterspin, leaps from the inner surface, and floats toward the central axis like an astronaut on a carnival ride. He reaches — catches the sneaker midair. Cheers.

But now, suspended in weightlessness, he can’t get back.

No worries. A tether cord runs down the central axis — a safety feature. He pulls himself back, slowly spinning. To onlookers, he seems to orbit a stripper pole for philosophers, but in truth, he is still — and the world spins around him.

At the far edge, the professor looks up, eyes following the floating student.

PROFESSOR (amused but focused)

Before we model civilization as a system of symbolic transmission — and symbols as recursive behavior codes — we must understand recursion itself.

Let us begin where life began.

The student slides down the barrel’s inner curve and sits in his seat. To half the auditorium, it looks as though he just sat on the ceiling. But in a barrel, there is no up — only motion.

📚 LECTURE: “Recursion and the Stages of Complexity”

PROFESSOR

Life, like civilization, is recursive.

It begins with DNA. Single cells form. They compete, copy, evolve.

Eventually, they hit a limit — and complexity increases.

Multicellular life begins. Now evolution copies not just molecules, but organs, bones, systems.

Next: Psychological DNA. Behavior patterns encoded in specialized cells — neurons. It’s no longer about reactive chemistry. It’s about learning.

Then: Cultural DNA — the symbolic transmission of experience between individuals.

Then: Civilizational DNA — entire societies operating like distributed minds.

And finally: The DNA of Civilizational Alliances — where nations become like cells in a greater organism.

PROFESSOR (pausing, scanning the room)

Each leap occurs when the current layer hits its limit. Not all systems evolve. Some remain forever as they were.

Even a paramecium is perfect — it still thrives, making copies of copies.

But the more primitive the level, the more perfect each unit must be. A single flawed cell... echoes into eternity.

Which means, formally speaking, the European Union is a very well-organized colony of biological cells.

(Some chuckles. A few raised eyebrows.)

PROFESSOR

Now, apply these same principles to psychology.

A child enters the world with zero symbolic experience. Each action, each gaze, is data.

First, they absorb basic patterns: warmth / cold, familiar / strange, nourishment / pain.

These primitive psychological cells become the building blocks of the entire personality.

Then comes combination. Associations. Metaphor. Simulation.

And like biological recursion — the mind grows by reorganizing what it already knows.

PROFESSOR

Now ask yourself: If human psychology is a recursive tower, built on the fragile bricks of early childhood…

What happens if those initial blocks were wrong? If they were damaged? If trauma coded the first patterns?

How does one rebuild a mind whose entire symbolic scaffolding rests on corrupted memory?

(Silence. Even the levitating sneaker drifts more slowly.)

PROFESSOR (checking his tablet)

That… will be the subject of our next lecture. Right after Easter.

Until then — safe journey to those returning home for the holidays.

🎒 END OF LECTURE

Students pack up their tablets, zip their curved backpacks. Some leap gently toward the connecting airlock. They drift into the adjacent module — a rotating botanical garden with infinite sunlight and oxygen-rich ivy. There, among curved trees and humming bees, someone suggests organizing a group trip…

STUDENT

There’s a music festival next week. On the far side of the Moon...

🎙️Poetry on the Lunar Orbit — “Recursive Light”

Somewhere above the far side of the Moon,
inside the slow-turning barrel of a lunar university module,
a new kind of poetry is whispered —
not in rhyme,
but in recursion.

There are memories
that echo not directly,
but through the reflections of other memories.
Like a photograph on the wall inside another photograph,
a room within a frame,
within a frame,
and somewhere in the corner —
a child.

He is crying, but silently,
as adults pass him by —
and older brothers don’t stop,
and don’t even look.

That image lives,
not in the front of the mind,
but in its architecture —
and from it, layer by layer,
is built a child,
a student,
a man behind a desk.

Look closely:
he is still made from that child.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Every emotional circuit,
every assumption of the world
was cast in that early light.

The lessons,
the teachers,
the bosses,
the blinking cursor —
they all confirm what the child once saw:
that trust is dangerous,
and love is conditional.

But now,
in the rotating gardens above the Moon,
a festival is happening —
not just of music,
but of light,
of memory,
of redesign.

The beats here are not for dancing —
they are for rewriting.

Every vibration sent through bone and breath
contains a new symbolic structure —
an invitation to reorganize the very cells of self-perception.

Inside the music,
each memory is retrieved,
unfolded like a letter from the past,
and rewritten not by deletion,
but by illumination.

A new child is drawn,
made not of echoed loneliness,
but of starlight,
drum patterns,
and a dream —
of flying to the far side of the Moon.

This new child
builds a new student,
who learns not for approval,
but for joy.

This new student
rebuilds the adult,
who works not to be seen,
but to see.

And each one contains
a miniature Moon,
a quiet gravity,
a softened light,
guiding every copy,
every recursive self
toward the dream of wholeness.

This is not healing.
It is re-composition.

Not forgetting,
but transfiguring
through the recursive light
of a thousand rhythm-saturated mirrors.