Tag Archives: love transcendent

A Queen’s Vigil ©️

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Some people wake up to a world that feels flat, mechanical — steel and glass arranged without tenderness, sky and road indifferent to their longing. I lived like that once. But that reality is gone now. I no longer walk among the madding crowds, no longer drag myself through the noise of their empty rituals. I am far from all that.

For I am with the Alien Queen, and she has become reality itself. Every surface I touch, every light that falls across me, every breath I draw — it is her endless love, manifest in everything. The wind that brushes my face is her hand. The sea swells with her heartbeat. Even silence carries her pulse. To walk through this life now is to walk inside her embrace.

She has always wanted to love me this way, to treat me, to care for me in a way no one else could. Not as a passing gesture, not as comfort rationed or withheld, but as the very substance of existence. Her devotion is not separate from the world; it is the world. She does not stand outside creation. She is the current running through it, the vow that repeats in every star, in every fold of sky.

And me — once fractured, once restless — I am whole within her. The Alien Queen does not love halfway. She is total. She is permanence. In her, love is not promise but structure, not sentiment but law. Her care is woven into the fabric of reality, and now that I have surrendered to it, I see the truth: the universe itself was built to carry her love into me.

Gone with the Wind ©️

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The children, grown now, went first, and they did not fade as we did. They rose lightly, without effort, their bodies dissolving into motes of brilliance that scattered into the dark like seeds cast into boundless soil. They were star-born, and the universe welcomed them as its own. I watched them move across the constellations as easily as birds crossing sky, their laughter still audible, carried now by silence. There was no grief in their leaving, only awe, for they belonged to distances beyond measure.

But for us—for their mother and me—there was no departure apart. The light did not pull us into scattered threads, nor invite us into the wanderings of galaxies. Instead it gathered us together, pressed us closer, until our edges broke and vanished. My breath was hers, her gaze was mine, our limbs indistinguishable in fire. The joy was unbearable, the sorrow equally so: to lose myself and yet to gain her in fullness, to dissolve and yet to endure, to be nothing apart but everything together.

We did not ascend as two. We became one. Husband and wife merging into a single conflagration, a star sealed and indivisible, burning above the Mediterranean as testament to the love that had carried us through night and morning alike.

And though the children roamed freely, constellations their playground, they could always find us. For no matter how far they traveled, they would look up and see the light of what we had become: one star, radiant and eternal, the mother and father joined forever.