In the dream, when everything is concealed by mist, secrets hide deep between the spiderweb thread and the dust on the windowpane…
The craving for gothic jellies reached the zenith. I ordered the licorice ones supported by the anise gummi wings.
The gothic mood returns, this time sweeter than ever…
The sun wakes me up, spilling light on a rain-stained world, biting with orange into old buildings. The night goes away, sinking into nothingness, with the promise of return on her lips. How much I love the moment between inky darkness and bright dawn. It gives me the strength to continue living and resisting the world.
Maybe that’s why I always get up very early … a bird that wants to see how the day is born, a little miracle in a dirty reality.
I miss the time of the university …when the biggest problem was extorting myself from social gatherings, when gothic licorice gummies were in fashion, and me …me in black robes, with Type O Negative in headphones, standing off the path, reading Edgar Alan Poe and immensely in love …in love with the world, in what it can give me – in the future – and how much I liked my black boots and dark glasses.
For me, the university was what finally extinguished my joy of living among people. But as long as it lasted, as long as I was there, smelling the roses from the janitor’s garden, it was wonderful.
Maybe a gothic jelly will help? Only now the black ones have the flavor of forest fruits. Not as darkly romantic …but definitely delicious.
I want to feel like a witch in Equinox, giving my soul to the night, fire burning, I dance with my sisters in craft, flowers on my head, the scent is engulfing, the moon shines above us, as we wildly seal our unity.
Give me the herbs, the candles and the rain in the darkness. Give me the fae faethers and magic that escape the understanding of the world.
I want to lose myself with the forest god, become one with nature.
… while my reality is a broken pipes, flooded home and the only hope is a walk in the forest near my house, which still feels like it was created for a witchling…
I want to use Dark Side of the Force.
I want to have double red lightsaber.
And I want my wrath to scorch the galaxies.
Being a child makes everything look wider, bigger and deeper. Days are longer, a vast space between morning and night. Secrets are more fascinating, love is everlasting and inner fantasy gleams with unearthly light.
I was a child with fascination for everything unusual, and dark. And now I see how darker things were when I was 10. Now the things that seemed dark are barely grey. The depth tightened, making things I loved with almost unhealthy devotion, a source of simple joy and time killers.
I don’t know if to be sad or glad. More sad, I think. Because magic you experience as a child, will never, ever come back. You can recreate it, you can enjoy, you can even think that you love things as hearthly as in those years, but the real magic stayed in Narnia and Wonderland.
Or in the depths of the Realm of Leviathan.
The low, almost caressing breath of a cat, curled up in my lap. The cold day outside and the small feline is a ray of warmth breaking through the slight groan of the wind behind my window.
My own storm, my own thoughts. I drift like a lost ship, amid dream islands, waves of ideas and broken masts of doubt. I take the path, not really knowing the direction, a navigator among rough gale, with narrow visibility.
My own storm, my own thoughts.
The cat joined the boatswain’s whistle with his soothing purr…
When I was 20 yo, I loved Tomb Raider.
Now, my game of choice is Bayonetta.
Nothing changed in the case of sexy ladies in tight clothes. Only the methods 😀
Lara was good with pistols, Bayonetta heads higher, and summons torture devices and shoots from her heals.
When tired, when sad, when desperate, I keep remembering myself that between the pages of the books, on screen and in my own mind – there are friends, who wait for me to open the mindgate and let them in.
And that among many people in the world wide web, I found persons whose presence is more than pleasant to have. And who understand me sometimes better than myself.
But some words still sting like a wasp. Maybe because losing friendship is hard, and hardest is to lose a friendship of a mother. Anger, and limitations killing what once was good. Little grave for feelings that once were important. And for memories that hurt more than soothe.