Tonight‘s tale is about a moment that was perfectly under control, until it was not.
It‘s about a girl living with a head that could easily fly off.
In one corner of that head, a witch is giggling. In her back, demons are waiting. Dystopia has its grip around her.
This tale is about an innocent walk she is taking with all this weight she is carrying around. It is not one of those walks to escape onto a field and get lost in the horizon and a yearning. It also is not one with a bottle of wine involved.
It is an innocent walk to the store, because the mild evening asked for cupcakes to be made, and she needs ingredients.
„I need milk and eggs“, she realizes. And after a second: „My head still feels lose“, she admits to her witch who knows what a wild ride the past few days had been. She felt dizzy and was blushing, and that without any wine or any secret kisses involved.
Without any reason really, her head could lose hold and fly off into the clouds, only to come crushing down eventually.
In the night of our tale, she has her grip around it, and so she grabs her keys, her bag and purse, and leaves the house. She is walking through the early evening and seeing the warm colours of illuminated windows, she wonders if her own could ever feel this warm. As the question grows threatening, she remembers that she‘s got a grip around it tonight. Not as tight as the grip she‘d prefer to feel around her throat, but still enough to state: „I have this under control.“
And so she keeps on walking past the old mansion with fairy lights blinking on the balcony in the first floor, and through the park encircled by fir trees, to reach the small store still open this late. As she enters, the pop music playing on the radio does not reach her, because she has music playing in her head. With her witch feeling close and with a melody in her lips, she reaches for eggs and floor, and cascades into a sigh as she spots colourful sugar sparkles on the shelf right next to her.
Violet and blue?
Gold and pink?
One colour could not be too bad for her midnight cupcakes, but which one?
The witch is giggling in the back of her head as her thoughts are ready to fly away again.
They return to all the hours she had spent crying at the horizon.
They repaint the shape of everyone dead and gone.
They remind her skin of all the time it had been torn.
They return to the point in the clouds were no pain can reach them.
And so she grabs them all.
„I thought we were through with this“, the witch giggles as they hurry out of the aisle.
„I thought I had it under control“, she admits, but her thoughts were blurry, her mind were spinning, and all she could think about was sugar in purple and blue, and in gold and pink.
Laughing but with tears all over her cheek, she grabs a canned beer and a potted plant standing to close to the check out.
At home, she still cannot decide whether to laugh or cry, but realized that after all there still was no milk.
„And now I have to take care of a potted plant as well“, she tells her witch and a shaking voice.
The witch smiles softly „It‘s a snake plant. It only needs water once a week from spring to autumn.“
Maybe she could get that under control, she thinks as she opens up her canned beer, puts on her coat once more to get some milk and makes a face at her demon.
Mistress witch writes 