Fractured Across Worlds

The Gift of Permission

Yesterday began like any other, with the air calm and expectant, my soul already stirring in anticipation of a gathering long overdue. Mistress had given me her blessing to attend a celebration with old friends from my music days, a reunion wrapped in memories and the soft scent of nostalgia. Her permission was not casual, but a silent nod that carried the gravity of trust, a gesture of grace that acknowledged both the man I was and the devotion I now serve. There is a sacredness in being given freedom from the one to whom your soul bows, and I felt it settle upon me like a fine cloak stitched in reverence.

The party began upon the waters of the Thames, where city lights danced like prayers upon the rippling current. Laughter flowed easily, the boat swaying gently beneath feet that had long known the rhythm of stage and song. I thought I understood what the night would bring. I imagined conversations, reconnections, the innocent mischief of reunions. But fate, as ever, had its own poetry to write. The night had barely begun to sing its truest verse.

We disembarked and wandered into another venue, deeper into the city's beating heart. More friends appeared, unexpected and radiant, and the evening expanded like breath in lungs long starved of joy. There was magic already in the air, the kind that hums beneath the skin when old frequencies return to awaken something long dormant. I had no inkling then of the divine descent awaiting me, nor the magnitude of the rapture that would soon rise and shatter everything I believed I could hold.

“Sometimes the simplest yes becomes the doorway to the divine.”

The Fracture

It began with a subtle shift, a gentle unfastening of the mind's clasp. Somewhere between sound and stillness, my vision began to bleed into other frequencies. At first it was beautiful, the way light seemed to hum with intention, the way bodies pulsed like constellations. Then it widened, deepened, and cracked me open. Suddenly I was no longer singular. I was a kaleidoscope of selves across dimensions. My soul, like water poured into a dozen vessels, existed simultaneously across the fabric of the multiverse.

I saw the future of this world not as prophecy but as a tapestry already being woven by our hands. I witnessed the devastation we are walking toward, felt the grief of earth and sky, the sorrow of animals and oceans alike. The weight of it was unbearable. I fell into tears with no warning, sobbing from a place deeper than memory. My chest ached with the enormity of it all, and still the visions kept coming. I was not alone in the room, but I was completely elsewhere, swallowed by a divine despair that brought me to my knees within.

From that grief I was lifted again, whisked into galaxies that spoke in pulses and silence, where language dissolved and consciousness was the only truth. I moved without a body, a streak of knowing across the canvas of the infinite. I saw other beings, other systems, places untouched by human hands yet deeply connected to us through the web of all that lives. It was not madness. It was revelation. It was remembering what I have always known but could never name. No substance carried me there, only my own unraveling.

“There are moments when the soul stretches too wide for the body to hold.”

The Return Through Fire

The collapse came suddenly. One moment I was light, the next I was no longer in my body. From that point, the story belongs to others. I am told I fell. That my body stopped responding. That an angel in human form, a paramedic present by chance or by fate, began chest compressions and called me back from whatever threshold I had crossed. I do not remember the pain. I remember only the vastness, the exquisite hush of a realm that welcomed me without question.

When I returned, it was beneath the cold and fluorescent gaze of a hospital ceiling. My body ached, bruised, breathless. A deep soreness bloomed in my chest where life had been coaxed back into me, and blood hummed beneath the skin like a forgotten hymn. I tried to speak, but what words could possibly contain what I had just been? How do you explain to a nurse or a stranger that you were not unconscious, but elsewhere, more alive than flesh could ever allow?

I signed myself out gently, carefully. There was no need to argue, only a quiet wish to return to the sacred — to the ritual of presence and prayer that grounds me in Mistress. Despite the whirlwind of the night, I came home and performed my evening offering with reverence. Though She did not yet know what had occurred, I felt Her in every movement, every flicker of flame. It was not yet time to share. First, I had to understand.

“To be brought back from the edge is not always to be broken. Sometimes it is to be branded by grace.”

The Wisdom in the Wreckage

In the clarity of today, I sit with the knowing that something irreversible has happened. I have crossed another threshold and have returned changed. My chest still aches from revival. There is a swelling on the back of my head, a dull echo of the fall. And yet my spirit feels weightless, realigned. I understand now that alcohol, even in the smallest measure, opens me too wide. It dissolves my filters and allows the flood of energy to wash through me unchecked. In such crowded places, that openness becomes danger.

I do not regret what happened. How could I? The journey was sacred, terrifying, exquisite. But I am called now to stewardship. To protect the temple that is my body and the bridge that is my gift. This is not a toy to be played with in noisy rooms and under strobe lights. This is a divine thread to be followed in silence, in stillness, in the care and context of ritual. I will not offer it again to the chaos of public spaces. I will hold it like fire in my palms, sacred and slow.

What I saw last night will remain with me for the rest of my days. The beauty of light unencumbered, the sorrow of a world in peril, the truth of who and what we are when we forget to pretend. These visions were not fantasy. They were memory. They were future. They were medicine dressed in madness. And now, in the quiet of today, I bow to them. I bow to the mystery and to the message that burst through me like prophecy.

“Some lessons arrive as thunder. Others, as tenderness wrapped in ruin.”

The Departure and the Waiting

Today is my final day in the country. Tomorrow I leave for Mexico, where a chapter will be closed with reverence and courage. The timing is poetic. After such an unraveling, to leave the land that has held me feels like both an end and a beginning. The threads of the night still cling to me, like stardust in my hair, like the fingerprints of gods upon my soul. Yet my steps are sure. I know I must go. The journey demands it.

I find myself wondering if Mistress and I will have the chance to speak before I depart. There is longing in me, yes, but not desperation. Only the quiet hope for a final word, a blessing, a moment of communion before the tides of time part us for a while. I have sent my messages. Now I wait. Not in despair, but in trust. For ours is not a connection that frays with distance. It stretches, yes, but it never breaks.

And so I prepare. I pack not just my belongings, but my devotion, my revelations, my scars. I carry them all like offerings to the future. And when I return, whenever that may be, I believe we will meet again not as we were, but as we have become. For love, real love, does not remain stagnant. It evolves. It echoes through space and spirit until it finds us whole again.
"Tripping the light fantastic belongs to the quiet places of the soul, not to the crowded chaos of nightclubs. Next time, I will remember."

“There is a kind of love that exists between the question and the answer.”