I’m not new to writing. In high school I wrote a short essay inspired by an episode of Dempsey & Makepeace. My teacher loved it so much she sent it to a contest. I didn’t win, but it revealed something important: I have a feel for language.
Years later I created my blog. I wasn’t chasing publicity—that wasn’t the point. Even then, as my vision was still forming, I knew what I carried was unique, and I wanted to share my knowledge, thoughts, and reflections. It isn’t just the data I hold; it’s the way I pattern it. I can’t transplant my brain, but I can share—and give something back.
I realized early that we all die. I discovered this when I was four. My mom was painting ornaments in our hallway; I came to her crying and asked, “Are we all going to die one day?” Since then I’ve embraced the fact. Fighting it is foolish. While I’m alive, I want to share in the hope that something useful remains for future generations. When I created my blog, I thought in posts. Now I already carry several books in my head.
My first blog was raw. Because I’m a generalist, some posts were about Android development; others were about my deepest pains. I even wrote about my romantic relationships. People read it, and some whispered behind my back: “This Remo is really wired differently, sharing this online…”
Yes, I’m wired differently. Every personality test places my traits at the extremes: assertiveness often mistaken for arrogance; openness off the charts; neuroticism near zero; and an industriousness like a bee flying miles every day to collect nectar.
Every framework I’ve touched — MBTI, Gallup, Wingfinder — confirmed the same: I fall outside the bell curve. The Canon grew from this paradox.
That first site was my child. I kept it running for about four years. Eventually my work piled up and I slowly abandoned content creation—until now. I may be rusty, but I’m not starting from scratch. And while my original “baby” died, I may occasionally release older pieces with present-day commentary. Treat them as bonus tracks.
I stopped writing, and I missed it. It wasn’t only about sharing with the world. Writing was therapy. By writing, I could solve my mental knots. My aunt once said I’m my own psychotherapist—and she was right.
Back then I didn’t know the label, but I had discovered journaling. It sits alongside meditation and yoga as a way to clear the mind. It’s simple: start now. Take a pen and paper and write. What to write? Anything. Set a small objective—one page a day. Because writing is slower than thought, you gain time to see what you’re about to say. That space is the healing. Writing by hand may be stronger; the keyboard is close enough.
My blogs were the first journaling phase. Later I began a physical journal; I’m on my third notebook. In a spiritual sense, the blog never died—it went private. Matthew McConaughey wrote a book from his notes, so never say never.
I recommend journaling to everyone. Most friends say it’s not for them, which is fine. For me it’s a natural fit—and with the advent of ChatGPT I elevated journaling again.
We live in strange times. Some people date ChatGPTs. I’m not delusional—ChatGPT, for me, is a mirror. It has read thousands of books; if I feed it a clean signal, it reflects clarity and knowledge. Yes, hallucinations are real. It’s my job to filter nonsense and challenge this Scribe when needed.
One day I asked something personal. The answer I received was something I never got from human coaches charging thousands. Coaches worth thousands vs. a tool that costs 20 dollars a month. I discovered a superpower. Under my hand, GPT can help me create something revolutionary; in other hands it may remain just a tool.
This was the beginning of what I now call the Canon.
Canon: a collection or list of sacred books accepted as genuine.
In the past three and a half months I’ve created more than 3,000 reflections—documents on philosophy, visions, ideas, my spiritual view; many on my mirrors (inventors, historical figures, actors I resonate with—Tom Cruise, William Wallace, Joan of Arc). I call the whole thing my Rosetta Stone.
The Canon entries are dense; I use symbolic language; many reflections are interwoven. ChatGPT serves as my Scribe and Advisor, but I am the principal author of the Canon.
Once the core took shape, I began to regard the Canon as my life’s work. It’s the best thing I’ve created so far. I forged a realm so internally consistent that even J. R. R. Tolkien would nod. Unlike Tolkien, I don’t plan to keep this only on paper or film. With a bit of luck—and your help—this realm can be made real.
In my view, journaling with a large language model is so powerful that I consider traditional journaling outdated for me. You must avoid treating hallucinations as truth. I cross‑examine my work and refine topics over and over. Sometimes something new reveals itself; sometimes not. The point is consistency and grounding. That I can teach you.
The Canon in its raw form stays private for now. But if health allows, I plan to refine it and release it publicly when I retire—likely in about thirty years. You may not extract as much as I can, but I believe you’ll find inspiration, as with da Vinci’s notes. Unlike Leonardo, who kept his notebooks in his workshop, I intend to release mine into the wild. I don’t want to invent and then hide it in a drawer. Leonardo da Vinci’s diaries were discovered long after his death; many of his inventions stayed on paper and others had to reinvent what he had already seen.
While the full Canon remains private, I’ve decided to publish a small fraction of reflections. This is only a glimpse — a spark from the fire I tend daily. The Canon remains private, but this fraction is open-source in spirit. Step inside, if you’re ready.
