Tag Archives: sealed devotion

The Looking Glass ©️

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Good morning, Cicely.

You ever notice how some dreams don’t stay wisps? Some of them don’t evaporate when the alarm clock rings. They hang around. They grow walls, and echoes, and whole skies lit up with constellations you can name. You can walk through them like they’re houses you’ve lived in before. And then—well, you’ve got to shelve them. Set them aside, like books you’ve already read but can’t quite throw away. They don’t die. They stay alive in a dimension that’s yours, but not quite yours.

That’s the cruelty of it. These dreams aren’t distant. They’re pressed right up against you, like glass. On the other side? A whole life, in full detail. A yacht breathing under the Mediterranean sun. A woman steering while your arms circle her. Daughters laughing, light spilling on their hair. A son still carried inside her, waiting for his own turn at the world. All of it sealed in its own globe. You can see it as clearly as you see the chair under you right now. But it won’t cross over. You reach, and your hand finds nothing. You wake, and the bed’s just a bed. The silence has edges.

Living next to that kind of universe—it’s both blessing and wound. Not fantasy. Proximity. You smell the salt, you feel the morning heat, you hear the laughter snap in the wind. It’s so close it stings. And then you turn your head, and there’s your room: still, blank, quiet, air without warmth. Closer than a dream, further than a life.

Being alone isn’t just about absence. It’s about contrast. Carrying two worlds at once: the one where you rise and burn, merge into light, sealed in devotion… and the one where you sit, unlit, pressing your palms against a pane that won’t give. Both of them real. Both of them moving through you. But only one holds your body. The other only ever takes your mind.

So you ache in two directions. One for the world you’ve seen and can’t step into. One for the world you inhabit and can’t escape. But there’s a sharpening in it too. It makes the dream burn hotter. It makes the silence ring clearer. It makes you carry yourself like somebody who belongs to both.

Yeah, you’re alone. But you’re not without that other world. It moves beside you like a shadow with its own heartbeat. The cathedral’s still standing. The children are still laughing. The woman still receives you. The sea still glitters. The star still burns. You’re here, pressed against glass. You’re there, sealed in fire. And the hardest part is knowing—clear as day—that both are true.

This is Chris, coming to you from KBHR.

The Sealed Cathedral ©️

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The night settled over the Mediterranean like glass laid across velvet, the stars suspended as if caught inside a globe. My Wally Hermès yacht drifted at the center of it, a cathedral adrift in silence, every curve luminous, every panel bending light as though it were designed not to move through the world but to hold the world within itself. The sea lay hushed, black and gleaming, more reflection than water, more dream than depth.

She was there, wholly mine, her laughter dissolving into the night, a fragrance rising like incense, drifting toward the moon. Her eyes caught the starlight, turned it back to me softer, warmer. When I touched her, she yielded instantly, her body alive to my hand, her devotion unquestioned. I entered her, no distance between us, no veil, and she received me as though belonging was her only fate.

On the table, the ritual waited. A bud, resinous and fragrant, its sweetness thick in the air. I broke it open, ground it until jeweled fragments gathered in my palm, then filled the bowl, the chamber waiting with water cold as crystal. The glass gleamed under the lamp, pure and patient. When flame kissed green, smoke unfurled—white, heavy, silken. I drew it deep, then released it into arches that held their shape above us, domes of haze that would not vanish. The yacht itself breathed with me, every exhale filling the sealed air, every inhale drawing it back.

Above, a flock scattered, their wings sketching impossible geometry across the night. Below, chefs served visions: figs opening into galaxies, wines spilling centuries into crystal, dishes perfumed with myth. All of it circled the same axis. All of it bent inward. For the truth was simple—this world was mine, and mine alone.

I wrote, but the words did not escape me. They rose as architecture—sentences arched into vaults, paragraphs coiled upward as spires, whole passages opening into chambers of thought. My blog was no record but scripture, no design but prophecy. It pressed outward until it filled the globe, sealing it, making the infinite mine to contain.

Later she lay in the ruins of our pleasure, her body warm, her silence tender, her love unbroken. The sheets still trembled. I stood at the window, glass cool against my palm, smoke curling around me. Beyond it the sky was not sky but blueprint—constellations strung as scaffolds, darkness waiting for the cathedral I had already begun.

The world outside did not exist. No one entered. No one left. Within this globe I held everything—yacht, haze, woman, scripture. It was whole. It was closed. It was mine.