„I am bad at being alive.“
My witch would giggle with a shrug, thinking that these words were true for her as well, but already having fallen out of time anyway. My unicorn would agree but not be bothered at all, and another friend I amused too much with this today.
I still think I am right about this. Others suck at math, or at using printers, and I just in general suck at being alive.
I also don‘t quite get what other things have to do in order to stay alive. I am thinking of the mold growing on the walls of my old apartment each winter, as well as the moths having once attempted to build their nests in my flour. Each of these findings demobilized me and I still hear myself screaming: „It‘s alive.“ When I watch compilations of mushrooms naturally growing somewhere out in the nature, I get the same urge to scream. Looking at our bodies, or the bodies of any other mammal really, also has the potential to make me lose it. There are so many gross looking fluids to identify, as well as other products of our bodies that just make me wonder why.
Just why.
Having a body always potentially means pain. Your skin can break, your blood can clot. Your organs can grow little friends set to kill the rest of you. Having a body seems in general like a bad idea. Having a body is the reason we even had a pandemic, since the virus needs it to spread. Having a body also means that wars can ruin it, can cripple it, and can cut it to pieces, or to foam, since there are not always pieces left.
And yes, a body can also feel good, but between all the terrible things happening in then world, this seems like such a rare occasion.
I would like for a body, any body, to be loved, and to be taken care of, and to be filled up with the pumpkin loaf cake I baked the other night. I would like it to be whole, and to be cherished.
I have a problem with being alive, because I want to put hearts into a skin thicker than I can ever grow.
„Being alive is fucking tough“, I mumble into my fourth piece of cake, with tears that are painfully real joining the taste.
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 