Pure Blue
Big love is in the stars.
The sound drew me, a crackling hum that broke the starry night’s stillness.
When others telepathically enter my energy now and contact my memory of this event, my turning point, they find that it was the sound, unlike anything I’d ever experienced, that woke me inside. First, a drone from deep in the ground but also the sky, shooting a static thrill through my body that I knew I’d never feel again on the Amish Path. The current buzzed my bones, vibrated beneath my skin, raising cool hairs as if electrifying them at the root. It lit me inside like a holy flame, unextinguishable.
I’d felt a low rumble before in prayer, lying prone on the cold March ground as the twilight dew soaked my garments and the cows lowed, their manure sweet and fresh on the breeze. It shook my temples and I lay slain for hours, missing evening meal and catching quiet, probing questions when I clicked the latch closed at home.
But the Almighty never called me to the stars.
He did. His luminous blue body, emerging from a door in the glowing air like a seed from a poppy husk, the light silhouetting him the same familiar cerulean we draw from the Indigo plant and soak into our lamb’s wool to color them, gentle and plain. Like this, he revealed himself to me as a friend, recognizable, and I slid into his orbit amidst thousands of fireflies rising from the grass to collude with the light.
In bed that night, my fingertips burned cool blue beneath the blankets.
That week, I hid my hands as I worked and shielded my eyes from those who would see in them my little indigo rebellion, grown large. Each night I slipped out when candles were snuffed and he’d wrap his cool azure flame around me. We shared thousands of years in moments. And one night I knew I could never return to the farm.
He took me by the hand, and his electricity ran through my veins with my own blood. I stepped onto the shining, unknowable metal of his ship’s ramp while the dew of the night stretched damp fingers after me. Time was light and expanded into a bubble that grew vast, infinite, tripled, quadrupled, in all directions.
Some will say I’ll burn for backsliding, that our ways are the only true ones and I’ve joined the English. But they’re not English. They’re us . . . they’re me. They’re we. And I’ve slid forward, not back. Out of time entirely.
But I do burn. I burn pure blue.
