Everyone thinks like this, Right?

The breeze brushed over her skin, like the memory of a long forgotten lovers touch. Leaning back in the chair she closes her eyes, she can’t seem to stem the swirling mass of thoughts in her mind. 

Where she was, where she is, where she wants to be. Often in conversation she will encourage others to take a moment to envision the kind of day they want to wake up to. She knows she should be living true to her own advice, and there are days she almost gets there. 

But it never feels like it quite gels, the ideas in her head feel like gossamer threads that when she tries to grasp them, they disintegrate. 

Her moments of wanting to be silly and playful are met with wane smiles and slightly puzzled looks that gives her the indication she is not ‘acting her age’.

Her job is to be more serious, adult, make ‘big’ decisions, talk of money, chores, politics, parenting and ‘what the future should be.’ She can hold these conversations, be ‘the adult’ for a while, but then the exhaustion of upholding that seriousness sets in. 

She wants to talk philosophy, how to change the world, things of creation, monsters, laugh at all manner of ridiculousness and look for the smallest vapours of magic in the trees, grasses and garden she tends so lovingly. 

The sun warms her skin, a smile shimmers across her lips for a moment, recalling a memory of feeling the rush of creation coming from her fingertips. The tingle moving from her spine to her skin, electric tendrils making her feel alive, connected. That same feeling she gets when she is witnessing others allowing themselves expression of the beauty they keep hidden. This deep desire to live in this place of passion and experience has led to feeling isolated and not quite anywhere she can fit. 

When she was young her intense weirdness was channeled, drama, art, poetry- for the most part never seen. Never seen by the people who are supposed to see her. It became smaller and smaller, until she could tuck that little ball of self into a corner, and she became a reasonable version of something that fits. Just different enough to keep some of her interests alive in the most basic sense, and enough to seem interesting at dinner parties.

Time to shake out of this. There is cleaning to attend to, preparing for the upcoming work week, a garden to harvest. 

It’s become harder, harder to contain the thing inside her. She feels it roiling, pushing against her insides. The hum can be almost unbearable. Constantly feeling like she is mentally tucking everything back in. Little by little she can feel it coming to the surface. She knows some people see it. 

Taking a moment to sit in the sun like this and not feel the societal guilt of not doing, feels impossible, it is mixed up in the thoughts of should, could, and better get done. Then the thought of getting lost in a swirl of delicious words. 

Except not the constant stream of current texts assaulting her phone, push back in the parenting world, the constant power struggle. We love that which can drive us round the bend. Teaching our children to question is brilliant, unless they use that skill on you, when all you want is a moment of compliance. She feels guilty when this thought sashays through.

The words she longs for are ancient, felt, burned into our marrow from the Gods. The ability to paint with them. The act of creation, a world we build and populate. The richness of colour texture and taste. Words that cut deep, words that cradle, that create heat, cold, sex and death. 

It pushes harder, her skin burns from the inside, like she wants to shed it, emerge from this shell. The voice that sticks in her throat, is screaming in her head. She wants to be touched, felt, made to feel solid. Consumed by the fire she feels burning inside. To screech wildly from the trees, roll naked in the cool moss, close her eyes and seek moment of stillness. These are the thoughts that go through her head as she is paying bills online. 

Her playlist randomly comes upon ‘The Immigrant Song’ by Led Zeppelin. Her eyes drift from the computer, and look faraway. Feeling the cool pommel in her hand, she raised her arms over her head in high guard, ready to bring the sword down hard. The breeze blows past again, taking with it her momentary reverie of another life. Time to finish researching canning recipes. 

Aren’t we supposed to become more sedate as we get older? Be content, conventional. Why does she feel so itchy all the time? If she could rip at her skin she would. Just to let out this wild beast who wants to howl in the dead of night amongst the trees. Momentary satisfaction when the tattoo needle pierces, but that only lasts so long. Even though the ink is an acceptable social norm, more that a few who know her have question the high number in such small amount of time. 

The sun has passed, she is sitting in shadow, but the heat of the day is still very much apparent. Book in hand she pauses to look at the sky. Signs in the clouds, the Fae and Drake are on watch, a crow calls from a close by tree- the Goddess confirms. She blinks, refocuses on her mystery novel. 

What if this thing trying so hard to get out, is not the foreign entity? What if this thing that has been awoken inside her, is her- she’s finally found the fight to break out of the layers that she has put on throughout the years. Is this what is supposed to happen? Does everyone have these thoughts while they are researching new exercise programs? she wonders aloud. 

A little consultation of the cards, that can be grounding. She has always noticed when she does read for others- the little piece she never tucked into the corner, they almost always seem to give practical advice. Put away money, get some education, love yourself……. But when she draws her own, she is more than puzzled. Lean into the magic- that makes no sense and gets her in trouble. There is a sigh that moves through her depths, she tells herself she just needs to be more disciplined, better sleep and stop snacking for the sake of the Gods.

Sleep can be a small respite, her internal clock has deemed most nights that 5 hours is good. This body that is not hers is full of pain, it wakes her sometimes. She wants to roar when it gets to her. But now that she is ‘mature’ she has limited her use of the things that numb her. In truth she only partially misses that cotton fuzzy feeling. It stopped being super helpful to quiet the anxiety monsters. In the moment it takes to pull in a deep breath to steady herself, there is a fleeting thought of what she could conjure to take power away from the monster, but knows she doesn’t have the ingredients or the right incantation 

As the slumber finally over takes her, she is vaguely concerned that when she wakes tomorrow that the thing shifting with in will be that much closer to the surface, but for that moment in the dreamland she is finally allowed to become whole.