Lavoie, ignition switch
Robbie Ward, my Thoth
Joe Miglionico, my photographer
Dad, warrior spirit
Feminine Divine, my muse
Trinity Phantom, life’s illustration
Shooby Mark, my encouragement
Vivien Anne, my rock
Meredith Lagges, the organizer
Leah Derr, my editor
Ma, my discipline
Magic, my passion
Love, my inspiration
Truth, my light
Great Spirit, my creativity
The Great Awakening, my direction
Healing Energy, my reason
Prologue
A draft of brisk air carried a glimmer of a young goddess whose astral feet drifted on a soft breeze of salacious white smoke clouds. The energy was clear and potent, and the ambiance of her heavenlike Nirvana met with any shades of white. There were iridescent walls of sallow vanilla with tinges of pearl glimmering like mica in a piece of granite and tall exquisitely sculptured achromatic opal pillars expanding into infinite space. Her dark chestnut tresses curled freely around her youthful features though her young-looking decoy was merely a guise of her old and powerful soul, as she chose to remain the appearance of an adolescent girl whose life was shortened during her most recent incarnation.
Her beloved, who stood beside her, though the same spiritual age, looked like the fully mature young adult who inherited his form during the early twentieth century. His manifestation, tall and slender with icy blue eyes and delicately carved contours with just the right amount of masculine edge.
It would be an entire life cycle before they were together and thriving in the same realm again, but both were aware that temporary life cycles were but a speck of time when compared to their immense love portrait painted with eternal insignias. She would reincarnate once more, and he would watch over her from the ether realm. Before long, she’d become an infant born of an eclectic gene pool and located in the United States, where he can preoccupy her dreams and her eternal subconscious. Once the appropriate moment arises, her temporary amnesia will become replaced with the totality of her immortal knowledge. Until that time, her beyond-life lover would remain trapped within the memories of the evolved spiritual archives of a higher dimension. A portal in the shape of a well of white onyx and halite stones with traces of gray veins erected in the center of their misty incantation. Encompassing this well of incarnation was a coven of beings that are, but are not beings of the everlasting covenant. They wore glowing iridescent cloaks covering all but what would be their faces, which were instead beaming white auras.
The vibration of their words permeated her soul as they told her that she’d forget everything, save for that particular moment at the well of life where she was about to plummet into the dark of ignorance and impregnate into a finite mortal existence where she’d temporarily go by the name of Sage.
One
Subdued thoughts become emotional expressions that yearn for someone to
Truly comprehend
I imagine the affinity we’d share during a journey inspired by
Love without end
There will be bright and beautiful music or times when life sings
A painfully darker song
But we will triumph the darkness, and our bond
Will keep our hearts strong
Crawl deep inside my mind to explore a world intended for
Empath’s to take to heart
If you’ve lost the way to the potential of your inner magick,
allow me to help you restart
Awaken, sweet companion, there’s a lightworkers’
Battle to be won
Time to restore faith and happiness by reminding the world
We’re all one
Part I
Sage
I
The Sensualist
I wake to cool, brisk air filling my large bedroom, descending through the crack between my slightly opened bay windows, parted like lips. The brightness of day leaks through the vertical blinds acting more as décor and less like a shield for protecting the burning sunlight from protruding through.
Is it eight thirty already? The neatly made bed on Bruce’s side and the sun glaring off the mirror, reflecting the morning sunlight straight into my eyes, are good indications that I need to pull myself out of this contented haze of slumber.
Bruce, unlike me, is quite the morning person. By the time I slip out of bed, my family has long since abandoned me to start their day. I’m commonly avoided like the plague during “early” hours. In addition to discipline, I also lack manners in the morning. I’m intolerant of pretty much anything until there’s at least an hour to become fully coherent of my surroundings. This is because I am nocturnal and cannot sleep soundly at night. I awake with wretched morning-time fatigue, hungover from exhaustion. Half of me remains in a world of euphoria, hard to decipher reality from not. Even my equilibrium is slow to rise, leaving bruises on my legs from how clumsy I can be when I first wake.
Warm quilted blankets protect my skin against the cool breeze that cajoles me to stay in my place, at least for now. Willing myself into a productive day, I remove my listless body from the comfort and warmth with as much discipline as I can muster. Standing slightly sluggish before the full-length mirror, chills creep down my body, hardening every hair follicle and tightening my nipples. The empty canvas I awake to every morning fascinates me. I gaze into the mirror at my bare, sleepy face, my unbrushed hair stretching just below my waist, tangled in knots and tied together at the tips by untamed curls. With my untouched ivory complexion slightly flushed by the pressures invited by the hard embroidery decorative fabric throw pillows pressing on my skin most of the night—paralyzed in my tired mind. A perfect portrayal of me, just before the hour I will be spending becoming a polished and groomed woman in business attire.
I awake alone, unkempt, wild, half naked, and free to do as I please for several hours of solitude. I call this my “rumination experience.” I allow my hair to remain free-flowing. A satin and lace negligee barely covers my pale flesh. The curve of my ass peeks out the bottom of the petite soft scalloped edging of my nightie. I never bother with the constriction of panties when I sleep. I am in essence nude. My sheer garment looks more like a useless sultry tank top than nightwear.
The physical space of my entire house always seems to harbor such energy, as if there could be another presence lurking, but I am unaccompanied by any human being
