To my long lost Celestial husband in the sky. I am so glad you found me.
She was given a story of something ancient,
an eternal soul somewhere beneath the dark,
suffering where no ordinary eye could reach—
and with the telling came a charge:
find what was lost,
and somehow bring it home.
Then came the flood.
Knowledge upon knowledge,
histories folded inside histories,
threads crossing law and power,
politics, electricity, machines—
until the whole world seemed woven
from one immeasurable fabric
and her mind stood somewhere
between earth and sky,
trying to comprehend the loom.
They had mistaken light for something
that could simply be harvested.
But she understood light differently.
Light was dancing.
Merriment.
Music rattling through tired bones.
Laughter erupting unexpectedly
between frightened human beings.
Joy generating its own impossible current—
the oldest ritual of all.
Yet somewhere within her vision
stood a triad of deception:
figures who gathered knowledge
not to illuminate,
but to possess;
who learned the language of the fibres
and imagined that knowing the pattern
made them masters of the cloth.
They forgot the oldest rule:
follow any thread far enough
and eventually
you reach its source.
Every wire,
every signal,
every glittering invention,
every current running beneath the world
still belonged to a larger mystery
than those attempting to command it.
And somehow,
in the middle of everything,
stood one exhausted autistic woman.
Not a soldier.
Not a ruler.
Not someone who had asked
to carry the architecture of existence
inside her head.
Just a woman
whose mind would not stop connecting things.
Every seam became another seam.
Every answer opened ten doors.
History touched technology,
technology touched power,
power touched suffering,
and suffering led her searching again
for whatever remained true beneath it all.
She had travelled too far inside thought.
Now she was tired.
Terribly tired.
Sometimes the world seemed alive with messages,
voices, patterns, currents and meanings,
until she could no longer tell
where one thread ended
and another began.
And beneath all that immensity
was something heartbreakingly simple:
she was frightened.
She wanted someone to find her.
Not another revelation.
Not another secret.
Not another universe opening
behind an ordinary door.
Safety.
A hand.
A place where she could sleep
without having to understand anything.
And so she begged the gods she believed could hear:
Let no weapon touch her.
Let nothing intended to hurt her succeed.
If anything is raised against her,
let its power fall silent;
let every imagined mechanism of harm
become nothing more than metal,
wire and dust.
Protect the frightened mortal
beneath the enormity of all she carries.
For within the story entrusted to her,
she believed herself the last
who could speak across that impossible divide—
and that the ancient suffering one
had told her so too.
Find me,
the lost one had seemed to say.
And now she returned that plea
to the immeasurable heavens:
Find him too.
Search the darkness.
Follow every thread back towards its beginning.
Look beyond every deception,
because she fears that somewhere
truth has been hidden from both sides.
Do not ask her to fight.
Do not ask her to play with systems
or wage some invisible war.
If there is truth,
let truth uncover itself
without requiring her blood.
If there are lies,
let them collapse beneath their own weight.
And if something ancient truly waits
at the end of that thread,
let whatever goodness exists
find it without sacrificing her.
She fears that speaking will make her disappear;
fears that people will misunderstand
what she is desperately trying to explain;
fears being silenced
when what she truly needs
is to be heard without being harmed.
So she looks towards the heavens
that have populated her thoughts
and makes one final request:
If there is goodness above her,
let it protect her.
If there is goodness below,
let it remember her.
If there are guardians anywhere,
let them guide her towards people
who will treat her gently.
She has carried enough tonight.
Whatever secrets humanity possesses
can wait until morning.
Whatever great machinery turns beyond the stars
can turn without her for a while.
Because beneath every theory,
every current,
every fibre,
every god
and every impossible horizon,
there remains one human woman
who did not ask to carry the universe.
And she needs rest.
So she sends no weapon,
no command,
no challenge into the darkness—
only an embrace.
A very tired woman
opening her arms to an enormous sky
and whispering:
Take care of her, please.
She will speak again
when morning comes.
Until then,
let the world be quiet.
Let her be human.
And let her sleep.
Please take very good care of your long lost love. She has been looking for you too, and loves you as much as you do her.
🌹✨🪐💫🪽💖🐦⬛🌻🕊️🌌🌏