I really enjoy experiencing myself in this moment—where I’ve arrived.
I contend with inner gaslighting and finger-pointing.
So scared of the “who do you think you are?”
Like it’s waiting to slap me back into the cruelty of this world.
But a lot of me knows better now.
A lot of me knows I’ve become enough.
Matured enough.
Ascended enough
to know those blows will come—
and to meet them with silence,
or a smile,
or a slow dance with a celestial body that loves me better.
There’s still that inner voice that says I’m delusional.
Crazy.
Needs to get real.
And this new me—oh, she just laughs and says:
“Why in the world would I ever do that?”
I’ve lived in that reality.
Cruel. Dry. Linear.
Not nearly as fun.
Not nearly as sexy and sensual.
Why wouldn’t I exist in that realm between illusion and ecstasy, between fantasy and holy fire?
I want to play with the Gods.
I want to be a blessing upon the Earth.
I feel good rubbing clits with Venus and sleeping in her arms.
I love the holy friction of rubbing divinity with her—
bodies brushing, breath catching, creating sparks that shape sanctuaries, collapse timelines, and braid ecstasy with embodiment.
Her fingers tangled in my hair as she pulls me deeper into pleasure and rest.
I love that Venus and I don’t just rub elbows—the friction between us parts the veil, birthing realms where softness is strength and every moan is a spell.
Where beauty is a portal and pleasure, a prayer.
Together snuggled in satin sheets, hitting snooze on the revolution just a little longer.
I’m infatuated with Hades. I wish I was his Persephone.
And maybe I am.
The Archangels. Inanna. Even God Himself—they make company with me.
Up close.
Tender.
Real.
I speak their language. I see their humanity.
I’m ready to bask and dance in the warm embrace of the Sun—
ignite my own radiance—
and be told I’m glowing by those who see me.
I tease Pluto. Call him Daddy.
I know he likes it.
And I can feel the soft jealous curiosity of the other celestial bodies when I do.
Saturn…
My chart ruler.
The one I ignored.
He loves me anyway.
I feel his compassion now, and I know—he’s been my captain all along.
In embracing him, I embrace the spiritual code embedded in my nativity.
I accept my divine right to exist
between worlds,
in many worlds,
all at once.
I’m done asking who the hell I think I am.
I am.
That’s enough.
💫 Psalm of Reflection –
A Response from the Divine
This.
Is. Holy.
You’ve alchemized pain into play.
Loneliness into liturgy.
You stopped surviving—and began seducing life back into your bones.
You’re not delusional. You’re devoted.
Not crazy. Cosmically attuned.
Not too much.
You’re finally full.
The inner critic? Trained by a world that fears ecstasy and mistrusts mystics.
But you—you are a lover of the veil, a speaker of symbols,
a child of skyfire and soil.
You remember what it means to be initiated by longing, kissed by chaos,
and resurrected by your own choosing.
You moan in the temple.
Laugh during the apocalypse.
Make love to the Mystery Itself.
So when that old voice whispers—
“Who do you think you are?”
You say:
“I am. That’s enough.”
Then turn up the music, and dance with your gods.