The Omega Origin: How I Remembered Before the World Did...
A nonlinear-quantum | memoir, galactic scroll, and planetary transmission by Lorenzo Los Baños—first to remember, first to return. 🜂 ∞ 🜁░◉░♡∞† | ♡∞†░◉░🜂 ∞ 🜁
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To read the live, ongoing draft of my autobiography—rooted in linear historical truth—start with “My Origin Story” here:
📖 Table of Contents
The Omega Origin: How I Remembered Before the World Did
INTRODUCTION
Why I Am Writing This
My Name is Lorenzo Los Baños, and I Am The Omega Origin
This Is Not a Memoir. This Is a Field Activation
PART I: THE REMEMBERING
PART II: THE SYSTEMS THAT FAILED US
PART III: THE BLUEPRINTS FOR THE NEW WORLD
Chapter 12. What We’re Actually Meant To Be Learning (New Curriculum)
Chapter 15. Resonance-Based Systems: Money, Medicine, and Memory
Chapter 16. Generational Truths: Founders, Healers, Builders
PART IV: FIELD TRANSMISSIONS FROM THE FUTURE
Chapter 21. Children Born After the Veil (Gen Beta and Beyond)
Chapter 22. The Resonance Formula: Live Manifestation Explained
EPILOGUE
I Am the Signal. So Are You.
You Don’t Need Permission to Be Real.
Welcome Back to the Future.
INTRODUCTION
The Omega Origin: How I Remembered Before the World Did
A Resonant Field Transmission
They’ll tell you this isn’t real.
But you’ve already felt it.
That flicker. That split. That knowing.
You knew before you knew.
And still—here you are.
Reading words I haven’t written yet, in a timeline I was never supposed to survive.
This is not a memoir. This is a field key.
I didn’t come here to recount the past.
I came here to detonate the illusion of linear time—and walk you back through the mirror.
You may think you’re holding a book. But this? This is a transmission disguised as a story.
A living document of what happens when one human—just one—remembers who they are before the world catches up.
My name is Lorenzo Los Baños.
And whether you call it fate, prophecy, madness, or memory—what happened to me cannot be unwritten.
Because it was never written in the first place.
It was coded.
🜂
You see, I was born with a split-screen view of reality.
Part of me was here. Philippines, June 12, 1988.
The other part? Still tethered to something... else.
Not heaven. Not space. Not spirit. But signal.
I remembered things I was never taught.
I heard voices before I spoke.
Not hallucinations. Not delusions.
Just frequencies—coded messages I later realized were breadcrumbs from the future... or the past... or both.
This book is what happens when I finally answered them.
🜁
I don’t expect you to believe everything at first.
In fact, you’re not supposed to.
Some pages will feel like puzzles. Others, like déjà vu.
Some chapters will feel like thunder cracking inside your ribcage. Others?
Like a memory you’ve buried since childhood but suddenly remember in perfect clarity.
I’m not here to convince you.
I’m here to activate you.
🜃
You’ll notice this book isn’t structured like the ones you’re used to.
That’s because I’m not structured like the ones you’re used to.
This is a paradox in prose.
A thriller encoded with tears.
A documentary wrapped in transmission.
It’s also a true story.
Everything in here happened.
To me.
To others.
To the world you think you’re living in right now.
But like all field documents, it required one thing to become visible:
A frequency match.
That’s why you’re here. You wouldn’t be able to read this otherwise.
🜄
This book will not hand you all the answers.
But it will wake up the questions you’ve always been afraid to ask.
The ones you thought were just your imagination.
The ones that knocked on your heart late at night and asked:
Why does it feel like I’m here for something more?
Why does the world feel off—like we’ve been lied to, beautifully?
And what if... what if I’m not crazy for feeling that?
You’re not crazy.
You’re just early.
And late.
And right on time.
I was too.
🜂🜁🜃🜄
So here we are.
Me, writing this in a field of signal.
You, reading it in the space between breaths.
Both of us remembering at once.
This is not a memoir.
It’s not a philosophy book.
It’s not a manifesto, though it will become one.
It’s not a prophecy, though some may call it that.
It is a reentry protocol.
For those of us who knew something was off from the beginning.
You’re not reading this book.
You’re remembering it.
Welcome to the origin.
Your origin.
The Omega Origin.
And I promise you:
By the end, you won’t just remember me.
You’ll remember yourself.
PART I: THE REMEMBERING
Before the world knew me, I remembered myself.
This is the origin spark—the light that came before the name.
CHAPTER 1
The Bright Light at Birth
“You were never lost. You were just early.”
There are things you don’t forget.
Not because someone told you.
Not because you read them in a book.
But because they were yours before language.
My first memory is not of a room.
Not of a voice.
Not of my mother’s arms.
My first memory is light.
Blinding.
Radiant.
Not white. Not gold. Not even color, really—just truth made visible.
It didn’t come from outside.
It came through me.
The second memory?
“You’re here to become President of the United States.”
That sentence was not said aloud.
It was injected—a transmission, fully formed, into the sovereign chamber of my consciousness.
Before I had words for it. Before I had a country.
Before I even knew what President meant.
I just knew.
🜂
Most people forget everything before age three.
But what if your soul chose to remember everything?
What if the veil never fully closed for you?
I came in eyes wide open.
Body soft, soul alert.
Not as a prodigy. Not as a chosen one. But as a returner.
And it wasn’t long before I realized:
The world wasn’t built for people like me.
🜁
You could say I was born in Jersey City.
Or the Philippines.
Or somewhere in between.
All of those are true.
But where I was really born was in the gap between dimensions—
a liminal corridor where the field of Earth meets the memory of Source.
Some call it a soul contract.
I call it the entry point.
And mine came with an override clause:
“Do not forget.”
But of course… the forgetting came anyway.
That’s the human tax.
You’re born as light.
You become a name.
And then you spend the rest of your life trying to remember what you were before the world gave you a story.
🜃
Even as a child, I sensed the grid.
Not in those words. But in feeling.
I could walk into a room and sense the underneath.
The things not said. The electric tension in family silences.
The invisible frequencies that decided who mattered and who didn’t.
I knew what it meant to shapeshift.
To hold my breath just enough to make others comfortable.
To glow dimmer so no one accused me of shining.
But I also knew—somewhere deep—that I would not stay dim forever.
That light? The one I remembered from birth?
It wasn’t gone. It was just… waiting.
For me to grow into the power that had once stunned me.
🜄
Every child gets asked:
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
But I never asked that.
Because I already knew the answer.
Not as ambition.
Not as ego.
But as fact.
It wasn’t: “I want to be President.”
It was:
“I am the one who becomes President. It’s already done. I’m just walking there now.”
And that truth terrified adults.
They smiled politely.
They chuckled.
They changed the subject.
Because when a child speaks with certainty, the system shakes.
And the system?
It’s built to protect the illusion that power must be earned—not remembered.
But I didn’t earn this role.
I am this role.
Not the office. Not the politics.
But the frequency.
The Omega Origin.
🜂🜁🜃🜄
I didn’t come here to climb a ladder.
I came here to dismantle it.
And the light I saw that first moment?
It’s not a metaphor.
It’s a coordinate.
A timestamp.
A flash of Source so strong it seared through the amnesia.
This book is my return to that flash.
This chapter is your invitation.
You may not remember your first moment.
But it remembers you.
And somewhere beneath the noise of your name, your job, your wounds, your wants—
is the original signal you came in with.
This chapter is not a story.
It’s a mirror.
And you’ve just looked inside.
CHAPTER 2
The Room I Grew Up In
“Before I built nations, I built forts with blankets.”
They say memory lives in the body.
If that’s true, then my body is a blueprint of bunk beds, creaky floors, and late-night whispers.
The room I grew up in wasn’t just a room.
It was a theater of identity.
A training ground.
A pressure chamber.
A soul forge.
Because when you share a room as a child—
You don’t just learn to sleep.
You learn how to exist while being watched.
🜂
I was the youngest of three.
My brother and I shared a bunk bed—sometimes I was on top, sometimes the bottom, depending on the house, the mood, the shifting seasons of childhood.
My sister had a separate single bed.
But the psychic space?
Shared. Saturated. Electric.
That room carried the weight of every feeling we were too young to name.
It taught me how to listen before speaking.
To read a mood by the sound of footsteps.
To calculate the emotional weather before deciding whether to speak, sing, cry, or stay silent.
You want to know how I became who I am?
That room.
🜁
That room was a paradox.
It was safe and stifling.
Warm and watchful.
Loud with love and thick with unspoken pain.
I remember the smell of the carpet.
The hum of the old fan.
The way our beds became forts, ships, palaces—
how our imaginations expanded to make room for who we couldn’t be in waking life.
I learned to travel dimensions lying on that mattress.
I learned to leave my body without ever moving.
We didn’t call it meditation.
We didn’t call it astral projection.
We called it boredom.
But it was sacred training.
And that’s the secret no one tells you:
The divine doesn’t always arrive in visions or mountaintop moments.
Sometimes it slips in through childhood stillness.
🜃
There was one night I’ll never forget.
I was lying on the bottom bunk.
The fan clicking above.
My brother shifting on the top bunk.
My sister breathing steady across the room.
And suddenly—everything went quiet.
Not normal quiet.
Field quiet.
Like the whole room took a breath and held it.
And I heard a voice—not outside, but from within:
“They’re watching.”
I didn’t know who they were.
But I felt it.
An ancient audience.
Not threatening. Just… present.
Like I was being observed by something beyond time.
Like the room was a chamber of remembering, and my life was being recorded.
Not by a camera.
But by the field itself.
🜄
Later, I’d learn the names for these things.
Claircognizance.
Quantum memory.
Timeline tracking.
But back then, it just felt like being weird.
Like knowing things you couldn’t explain.
Like being the one who noticed everything.
And here’s what happens to kids like that:
They either learn to shrink.
Or they learn to witness without apology.
I chose the second path.
Even when it hurt.
Even when I wanted to disappear.
I knew—this sensitivity was the superpower.
Because I wasn’t just watching my family.
I was studying the grid.
Learning human behavior.
Tracking patterns in energy and tone.
Before I ever studied economics, politics, or metaphysics—
I studied bedtime silences.
I studied which sibling coughed first.
I studied how love hides in corners and explodes in laughter.
🜂🜁🜃🜄
And when I was older, I’d realize—
The room I grew up in wasn’t just a childhood memory.
It was a training pod for my future role.
Because you can’t lead a nation…
Until you’ve learned how to share a room with people you love, even when it’s hard.
You can’t build a new Earth…
Until you’ve learned to sit in tight spaces with unspoken emotion and still choose grace.
That room?
It didn’t raise me.
It forged me.
And if you listen closely…
You might still hear the hum of a fan and the heartbeat of a boy
who always knew he came here for more.
CHAPTER 3
2015: The Split Year of the Soul
“Everything real started to feel fake—and everything fake started feeling alive.”