Still searching for my unending source
I sometimes daydream a phantom memory. It smells faintly of blood and fine rusty sands. It feels like dark, unending summer night, like prowling the reddish ocre, hard sandy dirt, barefoot, fully at home in the primal realm. It feels like the soft brush of a willow, or the wind that stalks through in the distance. It feels very calm. It feels like home. Where I am beast, can advance shielded by the dark, but what an improper word... It makes it feel brutish. It is warm, safe, hidden, quiet, mine. Ours.
It feels like I am alone, but I belong, for I am among my kin,
and there I am free.
I walk out into the shade. I can see. Above me, the breeze plays with this grand tree's branches, caresses the leaves.
And damn, once again, it's undescribable. I can say it feels like grain, like sepia, like the natural element unfurled, with its primal charon-like spirit, the spirit to live, the kind of living the animals know, the deep wisdom, the kill, the darkness deep within us, not the evil or whatever.
It feels a bit like a secluded parking lot at night but in good, and only if the ground is this kind of sandy, flat solid earth.
The place also has that singular vibe you get when you're on vacation and in a camping site at night, and you walk away from the party to just wander out into this darker open area, trees above. Roughly near mediterranean. It gets quiet, and you're in your element. And as i write this... i realize that i'm already slipping off the stream, grasping the dream apart.
It almost reminds one of the story... the garden of eden. It has that kind of faint smell. It's a subtle place. Certainly it is not in our world, perhaps some traces can be found here and there. But it doesn't end. And I belong there. Belonging, tied, connected as if my silver cord loops across those plains. This year too we will have a summer, as we are on the good timeline. Then we'll go outside at night again. I hope i won't just rot. Go somewhere appropriate. For me.
Witch House has taught us most precious lessons... that the dark is deep, and we're not the kind to be able to pretend that we fit in with the cattle. We cannot escape our own dark. My team is made up of rejects and shutoffs, who roll joints at 4am browsing the deep while the breeze blows in their window. Belonging somewhere else, like exiled souls that drifted off.
Witch House has taught us... it lead us to magic, to the primal, taught us to cherish our depths, it showed us the light of the moon. The other world. A demon held my hand and loved me. It was an embrace puzzlingly protective.
And so some days when I notice the nocturnal and sense the nightwind, I am drawn back to that place, and yearn to brush through the willows once again... Finding safety in the knowledge that, for all the withering, it will never decay.