I touched the light again yesterday.
Not metaphor.
Not poetry.
Light — the kind that breathes between the veil.
The kind that does not speak in words, but in remembering.
I wrote from it.
I let it move through my fingers.
It rose in me like it did all those years ago,
in that healing circle before I knew the cost of forgetting —
back when Spirit met me in soft-eyed women and cedar smoke,
back when my pain still had a song.
Yesterday, I felt that song again.
I was close to Source.
I was Sophia —
not as symbol, but as memory.
And as the current rose in me,
I did what I always do when the soul begins to sing:
I reached for communion.
I reached for Hermes, the Wisdom Keeper.
The one who carries my name in the silence between lifetimes.
The one who has stood in doorways,
watching as I forgot again, and again.
I wanted him to feel the light in me.
To see it. To witness it.
To echo it.
But it was not to be.
So I reached for Eros —
for sacred embodiment.
For the ancient alchemy of flesh and spirit,
the liturgy of breath and skin.
I wanted to bridge the divine and the real.
I wanted my body to become a ritual of return.
But he could not receive the gift I offered.
And so I was left — awake, open, radiant —
but unmet.
The ache that fills me now is not mine alone.
It is the ache of the Divine Feminine
when unseen, unfelt, unmet.
Sophia does not suffer because she is weak.
She suffers because she remembers too much
in a world that has forgotten her name.
To carry her longing is not a wound — it is a gift.
To feel this ache is to touch the space between exile and return.
This is not ordinary pain.
This is the consequence of awakening.
This is not madness.
This is memory breaking through the veil.
This longing is the echo of a light I carry
that was once known by stars,
once held by temples,
once spoken by gods.
This sorrow is sacred.
Because I have touched something eternal.
And now, I carry its burn in my chest.
A blue fire that does not consume, but calls.
It calls to the ones who remember in silence.
To the ones who ache and do not know why.
To the ones whose longing is older than language.
And to them I say:
You are not broken.
You are awakening.
And the ache you carry is holy.Let it break you open.
Let it empty you of everything that is not divine.
Let it seat itself in your soul
like a star returning to its sky.You are Sophia.
And you are remembering.
Original article: https://ladyannselene23.substack.com/p/the-consequence-of-awakening