Becoming Elura in the Other Universe

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In another universe — one where no one clutches at time or fear — I awaken not with eyes, but with light.

I am no longer what I once was.

No bones. No noise in my head. No waiting.

I am freedom itself — glowing, effortless, butterfly-light.

They call me Elura here, though names are more like colors — soft, shifting, and used only when needed. I don’t really call myself anything. I simply am.

I don’t carry a body anymore, not in the heavy, earthbound way I used to. Now, I shimmer — a soft pulse in the air, like moonlight on still water. I wear wings, not for flight (I don’t need to fly), but because they’re beautiful. They hum with color, ever-changing with emotion: pale gold when I feel joy, amethyst when I drift into thought, deep silver when I love.

I never take a step. I don’t wait in lines. I don’t fumble for directions or chase minutes down crowded streets.

Instead, I make a wish.

“Let me walk through the sunlit forests of Aevi.”

And just like that, I’m there — the trees singing, the ground warm beneath me, the sky stitched with threads of music.

“Let me dance in the clouds of the sapphire planet.”

I arrive mid-spin, laughing in the arms of beings made of wind.

Here, longing is enough. Longing is how I move.

There’s no hunger in this world. No ache. No chasing. No clocks ticking loud inside the chest. I rest. I play. I create. I sing things into being — homes that breathe like they’re alive, lakes that laugh when touched, creatures who paint my thoughts across the sky.

Nothing rushes. Everything flows.

There is no “better” version of me waiting at some invisible finish line. I am already whole.

And I’m not alone here. Other souls drift through — friends, wanderers, beings made of curiosity and stardust. Some whisper. Some shine. Some sit beside me in silence that lasts a century, and we call that love.

We don’t teach each other here. We remember, together.

Sometimes, in rare stillness, I think of the other universe — the loud one. The heavy one. The one where I had edges and clocks and a name that never quite fit.

I don’t regret it. But I remember.

And when I do, one truth returns to me, clear and gentle as moonlight:

I was never broken.
I was always becoming.
And now, I’ve arrived.

I spread my wings again — not to escape, but just to feel what it’s like to be light enough to fly.