XenoKnowsALL

Born with nothing but hunger and hurt, a 40-year-old soul is reborn in the body of a homeless Brooklyn stoner—and gifted with the divine ability to grow perfect cannabis in seven days. But instead of chasing hype, he builds a sacred legacy from the dirt: weed with intention, healing with fire, and culture with care.

Alongside Maya, a visionary artist, they transform their struggle into a global movement—From the Dirt—expanding across dispensaries, fashion, food, education, and spiritual growth.

From rooftops to rituals, from corner stores to cathedrals, this is a story of grief, glory, grind, and grace.

Because some things aren’t grown.
They’re remembered.

From the Dirt: Bloom Anyway

Darius wasn't looking for company.

The motel was just a place to lay low, roll up, and level up. His days were tight and silent: roll, serve, re-up. The From the Dirt name was catching buzz now—kids were tagging it on walls near Church Ave, barbers were asking for exclusive packs, and people were paying just to smell the joints before they sparked 'em.

Still, Darius kept it solo. The fewer people in his circle, the safer the mission.

But then there was her.

She showed up on a Thursday afternoon, posted by the corner store where he sometimes dropped pre-rolls off for his plug's cousin. Tallish, maybe 5'8". Long braids. Army jacket over a crop top. Big hoop earrings and a small gap between her front teeth that made her smile way too distracting.

She didn't say much at first—just asked for one of those "From the Dirt joints." Paid $30 without blinking. Sparked it on the spot. Blew out the smoke like it owed her something.

"Mmm. This ain't no average loud," she said, eyes narrowing as she looked him up and down. "Where you get this from?"

Darius just shrugged, slipping the cash in his pocket. "Magic."

She came back two days later. Same spot. Different hoodie. More questions.

"Why you call it From the Dirt? That personal?"

"You got a crew or is this a one-man show?"

Darius didn't answer much. He didn't want to. But she kept showing up, week after week, always buying one joint—never two, never none.

Her name was Maya.

She said she was 19, lived with her aunt in Crown Heights, took art classes on scholarship at a local community center. She sketched people when she was bored—and once, she sketched him, sitting on a stoop with a blunt in his hand and shadows on his face.

"You look like someone who's seen the end already," she said, not even looking up as her pencil moved."And decided to start over."

He started looking forward to her pull-ups.

She didn't pry too hard, didn't move weird. Just asked sharp questions and watched him with those curious, tired eyes like she knew there was more behind the hoodie and zipped lips.

And he hated how he almost wanted to tell her the truth.

That he'd already lived—and died—and got reborn with dirt in his lungs and gas in his hands.

But instead, he just handed her another joint.

"This one's called Second Chance," he said quietly.

"Hmm." She smiled, tucking it behind her ear. "Sounds like your autobiography."

Chapter Four – Questions and Quiet Eyes