Has My Novel Become a Spiritual Blueprint for Rebirth?

The Seven Seeds: A Sacred Myth for an America in Decline

I didn’t set out to write a prophecy. But sometimes, the story writes you.

When I began The Seven Seeds, I thought I was crafting an alternate history—a tale set in a world where Christ never walked the Earth and Rome never fell. But as I watched today’s headlines unfold—political theater masquerading as governance, the erosion of truth, cruelty spun as strength—I realized I wasn’t just writing fiction. I was documenting a parallel collapse.

A divided republic. A charismatic manipulator fanning the flames of fear. A public desensitized by violence and spectacle. A growing distrust in institutions once considered sacred. This was the world of my story—and, disturbingly, the world outside my window.

In the novel, Pope Gregory awakens in a Rome that never knew Christ, a civilization that never traded its sword for a shepherd’s crook. But the absence of Christianity doesn’t mean the absence of religion. Rome is still devout—devoted to conquest, pride, and domination. The empire thrives on control, not community. And yet, it is not dead. It is hollow. Crumbling from within.

Gregory’s mission isn’t to rebuild the Church. It’s to plant seven sacred virtues in barren soil:

These are not relics. They are the tools of survival, the DNA of decency, the very qualities that feel increasingly rare in our headlines—where cruelty becomes policy, corruption is rewarded, and those who speak truth are silenced.

In this sense, The Seven Seeds became more than a myth. It became a blueprint.

Gregory doesn’t fight with swords or sermons. He lives the virtues. He bleeds for them. He becomes the quiet voice of humanity inside a roaring machine. In doing so, he confronts not just the empire—but the reader. He asks: What do you stand for when standing costs everything?

And here we are.

An America fraying at the edges. Billionaires flying to space while families sleep in cars. Schoolchildren learning active shooter drills before multiplication tables. Leaders drunk on power, cheered for their cruelty. A people numbed by distraction and division.

This is not just decline. This is a forgetting.

But the path forward isn’t found in outrage. It’s found in remembrance.

What if we dared to live these virtues again—not as platitudes, but as daily practice? What if justice meant more than retribution? What if compassion wasn’t weakness, but rebellion in a time of cruelty? What if we had the courage to forgive—not to forget, but to heal?

By the final pages of The Seven Seeds, Gregory has not conquered an empire. He has not been crowned. He has been cast out. But he never betrays the seed within. And that, I believe, is the true revolution.

I did not plan to write a warning.

But perhaps this novel is one.

And if so, let it also be a torch.

The seeds are already in the soil.

Now it’s up to us to water them.