This morning tens of thousands of people from the GTA and beyond woke up truer, fuller, and more complete. We are the ones that saw Beyonce last night at the Air Canada Centre. We are the changed ones. Did the changed ones sleep? Surprisingly, some of us did, dreaming of Queen Bee floating softly but with purpose, a Jungian angel in a purple sequin dress assuring us that despite heartbreak everything will be OK.

Others of our kind sat in bed all night, replaying the nights event in their heads, coming to terms with recent memories. Trying to rationalize, contextualize, and summarize. Placing what we witnessed into a reality. A futile effort for the effect of Beyonce surpasses the delicate and easy manipulatable nature of our memories. A bold Bey is burned into our brain, to be tarnished never by time, dementia, and certainly not mere will.

And the lovers among us... well they did what lovers do, haunted by the sensuality they could still taste on their lips. One would think witnessing the scion of sexuality would make our paltry bodies seem like lumpy pieces of shit - but no, Beyonce transformed our libido into a higher, sexier and truer extension of spirit with every jerk of her hips (crane spirit), snarl of lips (tiger spirit), and shake of the most renowned,beatific butt on earth (bonobo spirit).

We are the changed ones. I would go as far to refer to us as "Beyonce's children" but that would discredit the holy child and future President Blue Ivy. What is clear is that us changed ones are closer to god then the rest of you plebeians. Having heard "Love on Top," "Single Ladies," "Halo," etc without a buffer of technology and in purest form, well, your definition of what music or art is makes us laugh.

The question for us now is how do we re-enter the world? We, whom Beyonce asked if we wanted to party. How do we navigate through our lives with such fire in our souls whilst the rest of you trot around empty and, well, dead? But we will live because true life is part of us. For we are the changed ones. This is our joy and our burden.

Photos courtesy of AP Select