In the heart of a forgotten desert, a lone figure trudged down a cracked highway, each step scraping against the sun-scorched asphalt as if metal clanked against stone. His feet felt like tin cans, hollow and beaten, dragging his weary body forward as he clutched an old glass bowl—its only inhabitant a sliver of something ancient and alive, a glint of Time itself suspended in water. His arms ached, heavy and empty, as though they’d died long before, holding nothing but the fragile keepsake of ages past.
But just as his strength waned, there was a shift. She appeared as if conjured from the dust itself: My Lady of the Earth, the Sun’s seventh Queen. With a graceful lift of her arms, she raised him above the smoke, the Screen of all that clouded and concealed. Her touch was unlike anything he’d known, reaching through the rusting paths of his veins, setting them aglow with purpose. In her embrace, he felt something long lost—a feeling like Home, a warmth too timeless to describe.
He looked upon her as her veil began to dissolve. Beneath it, her face bore the quiet strength of mountains, still and unyielding, forever patient. From her eyes spilt silver brooks, flowing over her cheeks without urgency, slipping past with a gentleness that defied the chaotic world below. The brooks whispered of hidden peace, where Madonnas rested in perfect balance, and saints lay quiet in their coffins, untouched by mortal turmoil. Shadows of the powerful faded here, hollow ambitions dissipating like smoke. Even the rooster—herald of dawn and disturbance—lay silent in her presence as if Time paused.
She was both familiar and fierce, the Only Child of Passion and Earth’s eternal heartbeat. Winds swept through the dust, weaving through her form, rooting into her flesh, and carrying the age-old whispers of forgotten stars with them. Her body, raw and untamed, glistened in the light of the Sun, bound to it yet free, dancing in an endless circle of life and death, decay and rebirth.
With a flick of her golden feet, she nudged the Moon, sending it into an orbit known only to the wise and the wild, beckoning all with a silent proclamation. The man held his breath, feeling the weight of her gesture, her assurance—this was no end but the beginning, an age reborn. And as he stared into her eyes, he understood: he was no longer lost in the desert. He had been brought back to her, the soul of his journey entwined with the spirit of the Earth, who whispered to him that, like her, he too was eternal.
Welcome — I’m glad you’re here.
Journeys and Star Gazing 