Have enough of our loved ones been absorbed by plague, war, and the general collapse of things for us to pose as a baroque painting? My witch said yes, so just think of all the pretty things we‘re gonna get now! Just like Emilie Autumn once sang about pretty dresses and hair when expecting to die soon – priorities!
So, for me it looks like I will wear my corset once more and my cheeks will be rose and my lips will be red and I will wear pearls between sculls rolling around. What more can I even ask for?
Oh, yea. Right. There‘s the thing with the loved once that, well, once have been and more and more are not anymore. Those in mass graves, and those otherwise absorbed by the horror of being alive right now, but hey! A few hundred years ago this also lead to people wanting to feel pretty and painting sculls into things to just not completely exclude death from everything. My witch can tell!
It‘s so fucking hard to love someone in a world collapsing. What do I even say? Do I pet their head and lie about things ever being fine, or do I shock them with passion and ask to take me one last time and send these words right into their bleeding heart? Tough choice! And, oh! There‘s also another option.
I could just accept to lose them.
Lose them to death.
Lose them to life.
Because I found them in a world that once was better.
He lives in a world made of waffles and cinnamon, and she lives in a world with sculls rolling around.
You can‘t have both, boy
You can‘t have both.
„So, all of this is about avoiding to lose someone?“, the nice man in the nice blue shirt asked me recently. And I was avoiding eye contact with my therapist through my freshly blow dried, long red hair.
At least I feel pretty.
I wish I’d told you all my stories.
I want to tell you all my storiesIt’s not that they would changeIt’s just that I would likeTo see themFormA new expressionOn your face I need to tell you all my storiesI am not sureIf they makeSenseThe way I thoughtThey do. I will tell you all my storiesThey frighten meI’m sure you won’t endureI see…
Dealing with darkness in writing
This spring afternoon is glowing pink and tastes like strong tea. It feels much too familiar, and I begin to open up.I feel far away from myself as I start to talk, to babble on about my novel. About all the things I’ve been reading about in the past 5 years. About the 17th century,…
Radical witching novel rewrites at 4 AM!
I wore the same night dress my witch used to wear to get drunk on my windowsill, when I suddenly had an idea at 4 AM. Great ideas always happen at 4 AM, remember? This one however, kept me awake for at least a week, debating it back and forth. At some point my witch…
Mistress witch writes 