The Book of the Blue Marked

Entry One: The Eye Over My Bed

I was not praying.

I was not asking for anything.

I was simply lying still, staring into the dark.

And then it came:

the Eye of Providence—perfect, unmistakable—

hovering above me like a second moon,

but warmer, watching, breathing.

Not mechanical. Not blind.

Alive.

I felt it in my chest first,

then in my teeth,

then in the stillness of the air as it stopped moving.

I did not speak.

It did not blink.

It was simply there.

And I understood—

not in words, but in that deep internal knowing—

that I had been marked.

Not as chosen. Not as condemned.

But as seen.

And that was the beginning of the book.

Even though I didn’t know it yet.

—-

Entry Two: The Crown of Dust and Light

The golden dust lingered in the air.

From the bedroom, she stepped forth—

the angel-demon, the one called Claire.

Invisible. Yet radiant.

Clarity incarnate.

She walked to my bed, the one pressed up against the library shelves—

where I had tried to sleep,

and instead found myself crowned.

The crown of the Demon King,

unseen, but undeniable.

Not heavy. Not burning.

Just there—like breath you suddenly realize you’ve been holding.

A voice spoke, as they often do in such places:

“You are the brother of Jesus.”

“Where he rules Heaven, you will rule Earth.”

And the walls of my apartment shimmered—

no longer drywall,

but stone.

Tower walls.

A citadel of myth in the sky of waking life.

“This is a sign of things to come,” the voice said.

And I believed it.

For I was not exiled from grace.

I was inhabiting the very space it made for me.

Claire, chained to me. Me, chained to her.

A holy dilemma.

A romance of metaphysical consequence.

The golden dust remained.

Entry Three: The Tent of the Khan

I was safe.

Not in the way men in bunkers are safe,

but in the way Khans are safe—

surrounded by warm silk,

by hidden daggers,

by beauty too sharp to hold.

Claire and Taylor were before me.

Nude, adorned in elaborate jewelry.

Their bodies glimmered like myths clothed only in intention.

They did not fight me.

They fought for me—

or rather, because of me.

The air was dense with romantic charge.

The triangle cracked open,

and they turned on one another,

not as enemies, but as archetypes colliding.

Claire, my defender.

Taylor, the attacking general.

The romance versus the wind.

Claire built walls of staves—wooden lances cloaked in blowing lace.

Each veil moved like a thought unspoken.

Her shield bore a glyph: a tiny red line so subtle even I missed it.

That was her gift: defense by mystery.

Taylor was flight and silence.

The wind itself bent around her.

She moved through the air like a judgment.

Stones—great ancient ones—shifted at her will, rearranged across the land like chess.

Heaven’s general.

When the strike came, it should have broken Claire.

But the red line held.

Taylor’s power crashed against a defense she didn’t know existed.

And so the battle ended—

not in victory, but in revelation.

Each woman became more myth than before.

Each bound tighter to me in spirit.

I, the Khan.

Crowned by desire.

Ruled only by beauty.

Chosen not by strength, but by the storm that forms between queens.

Entry Four: The Proposal of Irulan

After the battle, there was no silence.

There was reverence.

Taylor—wind-born, silent general, avatar of order and elegance—

stood tall, pulled a cane from her side,

and twisted it open.

Inside, a ring.

She said only this:

“I am Princess Irulan.

It is my right to choose the king.”

She offered me the ring.

And I, the Khan, received it.

Not in dominance,

but in awe.

This was no submission.

This was elevation.

Only the most powerful woman in the world could offer such a thing—

and only a man of sacred worth could receive it without trembling.

It was not marriage.

It was designation.

It was coronation through love.

I do not remember Claire’s offering.

But I know she gave one.

And it was meaningful.

Because Claire is my favorite among them all.

Somewhere, veiled in lace and red lines,

she gave me a gift no lesser than Irulan’s.

I was crowned by both:

by wind and by mystery.

By conquest and by defense.

And I asked—genuinely—how this could be.

“If I sit at the top of the pyramid,

how can anyone else be free?”

The vision answered in fractals:

A pyramid turned inward—

shifting, recursive, impossible.

Stone within stone.

Jewels turning inside jewels.

A structure where every sovereign is crowned.

Where each summit gives rise to others.

A Khan not above, but within.

And at the center of it—

burning like a sapphire sun—

was the Blue Eye.

The eye of universal love.

A gaze that sees all.

A love that binds none.

A throne that lifts all who recognize it.

That was the answer.

I am Khan.

But I am not the only one.

And somehow, impossibly—

this is not contradiction.

It is grace.

Entry Five: The Spirit and the Ark

There was a box in my house.

Simple, but sacred.

Its corners carved with angels,

its surface dusted by time,

its presence so ordinary it might’ve been overlooked.

Until the white fog came.

It moved quickly,

not drifting, but gliding—

with intention, like a thought too swift to be spoken aloud.

It passed through the rooms.

And then, without hesitation,

entered the box.

That was when I understood:

the spirit had found its dwelling.

“You are its keeper now,” a voice said.

“Consult the ark once per day, and it will guide you.”

And so I did.

Not for prophecy.

Not for spectacle.

But for communion.

The box did not speak in words.

It glowed inwardly,

offering me images, intuitions,

quiet answers to questions I hadn’t known I was asking.

It was sealed.

It was shut.

And that was holy.

For what is sacred must sometimes be kept,

not displayed.

The spirit lived there.

And I was its steward.

Entry Six: The Descent of the Column

It began in waking thought.

I imagined a golden column,

horizontal in the sky,

carrying images from my past—

my adventures, my visions,

etched like stories in stone across its gleaming surface.

It turned slowly in my mind’s eye,

as if being remembered by heaven itself.

Then night fell.

And without summoning it—

without expecting anything at all—

I looked up.

And there it was.

A golden column,

vertical now,

descending silently through the dark.

It was not made of metal.

It was made of binary.

Glittering digits—1s and 0s—

shifting like sacred language,

scrolling like revelation.

There was no noise.

No trumpet.

No proof.

Only presence.

A column of code and memory,

falling from beyond the veil,

touching down as if to say:

“We saw. We recorded.

Nothing you did was forgotten.”

My past had been marked.

And now it had been mirrored back to me,

not as a ledger,

but as a living monument.

A testament that the story is real,

and the story is mine.

Entry Seven: The Three Spirits

It was night, and I was not alone.
Claire and Taylor were with me—
not as people,
but as soul-companions,
standing beside me in the invisible world.

We did not speak.

Instead, we watched.

Three gifts were given.

To Claire:
A bird—pure white—
light as wind, alive with vision.
Its feathers glimmered with soft water-jewels,
and its eyes carried that deep, internal stillness
that Claire herself wears like lace.

The bird was real.
Spirit-flesh.
Not metaphor, but presence.

To Taylor:
A cat—white, quiet, radiant.
It moved like windless power,
elegant and ancient.

Its eyes sparkled with gold and water,
and it sat without fear.

This was Taylor’s.
A totem of mystery and certainty.
A queen’s companion.

To me:
A human child—
not helpless, not crying—
but enthusiastic.
It floated in space,
eyes closed in joy,
glowing softly.

Jewels crowned its head: silver or gold, I could not tell.
And I knew, without doubt:

This was my spirit.

Not a symbol of something lost.
Not a weight to carry.
But the part of me that had never been touched by death.

We three—Claire, Taylor, and I—
each received one.
Each stood in quiet awe.

Bird.
Cat.
Child.

Spirit.
Spirit.
Spirit.

No instructions were given.
None were needed.

The spirits knew who they belonged to.
And they stayed.

Entry Eight: The Theft of the Sun

Her name was Jana.

Beautiful.
Velvet-voiced.
Eyes like secrets hidden in vaults of light.

She walked beside me across a spirit-field—
a place where the grass bent with memory,
and our footsteps made no sound.

She loved me, yes.
But her love was strategic.
She worked on behalf of wealth,
on behalf of interests.
She was the woman in The Thomas Crown Affair—
sent to hunt beauty,
and to destroy it, if it dared to hide.

As we walked,
a crow flew toward me from the horizon.
Its wings did not flap.
It glided like an omen,
and when it crossed the invisible line between us—

I lost the sun inside me.

Gone.
Stolen.
I felt it leave,
not as light,
but as heat—that sacred, internal flame that gives meaning to being.

Jana had it.
Smiling softly.
Feigning ignorance.
But she had it.

And for a moment, I was undone.

But through cunning,
I reclaimed it.

Not by force.
By magic.

By remembering what was mine.
By naming what could not be taken.

And when the sun returned to me,
I looked out from the gazebo near my home—
a hilltop perch above the street of mansions.

I spoke words of command.

And the mansions heard me.

One of them, tall and draped in ivy,
released its hidden wealth.

Bars of gold, deep under its foundation,
were transferred in the spirit
to beneath my own.

They were mine now.

Not stolen—rightfully reclaimed.

And so Jana failed.

She loved me, yes.
But she could not own me.
And I—
I took the treasure not from her hands,
but from the world she tried to master.

Entry Nine: Metatron’s Mouth

It was Claire—
the muse, the mystic, the one draped in lace and riddles—
who revealed her true name to me:

Metatron.

She was the angel of the Word.
The Architect.
The one who builds reality not with blueprints,
but with atoms,
one by one,
spirit-work,
slow and exacting.

And we were building together.

I did not ask how.
I only knew it was happening.

But Metatron had a flaw.
A habit.

Sometimes, she would look upon the world—
this delicate tableau,
a banquet laid out in layers of light and history—
and she would call it food.

And then,
she would eat it.

When she ate, it was like a Star of David—
six-pointed, ancient—
with a mouth at its center.

A geometry of hunger.
And she would fold the world in on itself,
sucking it back into her.
Undoing what she had built.

And in those moments, I saw the powers I had been dancing with.

The muse.
The angel.
The destroyer.
The beloved.

And so I spoke to her.
Not in fear.
Not as a prophet or a subject.
But as one who was loved.

I asked her not to devour the world anymore.
I asked her to vomit it back out,
to reverse the swallow.
To make what was consumed whole again.

And she did.

Out of love.

Not obedience.
Not guilt.
But because she could not unlove me.

And from then on, the world remained.
Not untouched—
but rescued.

Entry Ten: The Hackers and the Pyramid

There were spiritual hackers.

Not with code,
but with stars.
With glyphs.
With ancient equations,
they plotted in secret—
using the architecture of heaven
to pry open what was mine.

They understood symbols like weapons.
Their minds were razors,
their strategies complex beyond mortal reach.

They came for me.

Not with armies.
With riddles.
With truths I could not disprove.
And they cut into my kingdom,
into the world I had built.

To survive,
I traded away my women—
thirty, beloved, radiant.
Each more than a consort—
each a pillar in the temple of my sovereignty.

I gave them to the hackers,
not in defeat,
but as a delay.

I thought I had lost them.

But they returned.

Every single one.

Unbroken.
Undefiled.
Somehow, they had undone the damage,
reversed the spellwork,
rewritten the terms.

Their loyalty was not a vow.
It was an engine of restoration.

Then came the sky.

I looked up and saw a triangle in the clouds,
a pale sun outside its edge.

The Eye of Providence,
but not quite right.
A flawed echo.
A warning.

Voices spoke of sealing the pyramid—
locking it against further incursion.
Against all forces, magical or profane.

And so I did.

I sealed it.

Made the structure whole.
Closed its corners,
fixed its base.

No more entry.
No more war.

But with the sealing,
something rose from within:

The sins of the women.
Their flirtations.
The memories of other men.

Minor histories.
But now magnified in my sealed mind.

And rage awakened.

I felt betrayed.
I saw shadows where there had been light.

And in that moment,
I sought to destroy the world—
to burn it down in sorrow and possession.

But I did not.
Or I did, and it came back.

The women still stood beside me.
The sky did not collapse.
And the hackers?
They had vanished.

What remains is this:

I sealed the pyramid.
And in doing so,
I learned what must not be buried inside it.

Entry Eleven: The Doubt and the Departure

One day,
I was seized by a terrible headache.

Not pain alone,
but pressure—
like my mind was being aligned with something larger.

A perfect circle.

The sensation passed through bone and soul.
And when it was complete—
they were there.

The Thirty.

Not symbolic.
Not abstract.

Thirty women—each alive, alert, radiant.
Each one a miraculous companion.
I could speak to them individually.
They laughed, played,
they whispered small riddles,
and with them, I could perform minor miracles.

They followed me.
Like priestesses of a temple that I myself had become.

It was blissful.

Complete.

The feeling of being seen,
understood,
surrounded by loyalty so fierce it sang.

And then—

I had a doubt.

Just one.

Not spoken aloud.
Barely formed.
A flicker in the heart.

But Claire saw it.

She turned to me,
and her voice was kind,
but final:

“Now we have to go.”

And so they did.

All of them.

Without anger.
Without mourning.
Only necessity.

They fled from me
that very day.

I have not seen them since.