Saturday, 23 March 2013

Howling at the Moon

On the night of the dark moon I lit candles.

I always light candles, so nothing unusual there. I lit the candles on my kitchen altar as I cooked, and unusually for me, I left them burning long after I had finished. I lit another in the pale blue tea-light holder hanging in my kitchen window and left it gently swinging in the draft from the just-cracked-open window. A golden glow filled that warmest of spaces as I turned out the light. Shifting shadows danced on the walls.
It had been a bad day. Dull, wet, cloudy, the kind of day that sucks all inspiration from you and smothers it. The kind of day where tempers fray for no reason, and words -though not meant to be unkind- are taken the wrong way. The kind of day where if something can go wrong, it will. My swollen, aching belly did little to lighten the mood and I allowed myself to wallow in that dragging menses energy instead of making it work for me.
In truth I was behaving like a spoilt child, wanting everything my own way...but it didn't seem that way at the time and although I wasn't handling things as well as I should, my grievances, my pain, my fears were justified. I guess I wasn't the only one in a bad mood, and maybe not the only one behaving badly either. Such was the energy of the day.

I left my sleeping Druid dozing in front of the t.v, the abstract flickerings of colour playing across his face. I had tried to write, to spill out my feelings and frustrations onto the page in a form of release, not necessarily to be read, just to be written, but my thoughts skittered and collided, whirling unfettered inside my tired mind. Nothing was making sense and as the tears fell I turned out the light to hide them. Only the colours from the television remained. Jarring. Disturbing. Silent tears became choked back sobs, my body wracking with the movement of the pain I could not voice.

My Druid slept on. I crept away on tiptoed feet, not wanting to wake him, knowing he would ask what was wrong, and that I would say 'Nothing'. Not lying, not hiding the truth, but having no way to put into words how I felt. My kitchen called me. The glow from the still burning candles beckoned me in and instead of hurling myself onto our bed in the darkness as I had imagined, instead of allowing my pillow to smother and swallow the sound of my tears, I stood alone in the centre of my small kitchen and sobbed.

I sobbed raw and broken. I sobbed until I could not breathe. I found myself turning, spinning in the candlelight, whirling in some strange, measured dance to the beat of the dark moon outside. I wept and I howled, I spoke in broken words over and over and over again, what it was that I wanted, needed, missed. I don't know who I called to, I don't remember all I said, only that I wanted to go back, I wanted to go home, not even really understanding what I meant. Back where? I was home! And yet still I spun and still I cried until I could cry no more.

And then I understood. And I knew it was impossible. We cannot live in the past, only move forward or stagnate, but it felt better to get it out.

I did not plan it, or even realise it at the time, but I worked powerful magic that night. Magic that is already moving through my life, stirring things up.


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  6. Oh you silly stupid bitch. You don't know what your playing with here. Don't mess with me. Can you take the truth? I don't think you can. Your not up to it, week, wimpy, and pathetic, that's you. can't even stop your man playing away. Sleep well while you can. Hahaha Soon every time you close your eyes you'll see them at it. It's not a pretty sight!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Do you want to see?

    1. You're not your. Since you're being pathetic and a bitch, I figure I can too. Grow up and get your own blog if you feel the need to be such a child. By the way, curiously, how old are you? I'm thinking high school because only some one that age would be this immature.

    2. And it's weak, not week.
      Honestly, the educational standard of this particular breed of delusional crackpot, is always disappointing.

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