The two weeks or so recently gone have been a focus on identifying and dis-engaging a long running etheric harassment; things I have persistently chosen to not attenuate my senses to for whatever reason; survival, convenience, ignorance, avoidance, timing of appointments. We do what we do. We live what we live. We have what we have. We use words for words sake. Seeking meaning, finding circles.
This unkind expectation chase has had me following acute sudden pain all around my body. A point is resolved, the sharp assault just on the edge of fading and it fires again on another pressure point. I will not be letting it stay in a tributary flow this time around.
I think that the world is tricksy, with odd leverage and prism-fractured expectancy of interaction. I do not know what I am doing, I am doing it because I have already planned to. My guiding dialogue is the Throw-Forward point of my own CI.
Prose previously published elsewhere March 11, 2021.
To the Unnamed Mud Witch
Hello thin creature We meet still, in small ponds of honey scum. Why do you say that I must stop And obey the screeching of your harassment, Like a white-capped maid on glossy pew? You know? And I do not? You understand? And I care not? Says who? Says You? And why should I agree? What is your clan that I should listen? What is your mother that I should bow? What right of power do you encompass? I am one who taught the teachers of your grandmothers. I spun the web which you call yours by inheritance. My majik flows where yours makes mud.
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