I was told once, or I read it once (in a fantasy or an autobiography, but really, what’s the difference?), that witchcraft is double edged. Maybe a soapbox preacher screamed it, or an old romance murmured it, or a too-tired woman with fever bright eyes whispered it to me at a new age festival she didn’t belong at. Maybe god told us in the bible, that a witch sells her soul, or maybe we all learned it the first time we lit a candle and made a wish without a cake.
But it’s nights like this, with jittery hands and lips that mouth apocalypse apocalypse apocalypse without permission, that you realize your soul isn’t yours anymore. It’s split now, a thousand shards to a thousand places- to the fairy mound, to the bonfire dance, to the pathetic bookstores and the fairs and the dirty waters and the dark forests, and the smallest part left over is yours. When the gods of gods weave the fingers through your hair, promising insanity for a flash of vision, and maybe we’re all predisposed, call it depression, call it madness, call it inspiration…the cycle repeats. In something as inane as this blog, you can see it repeat, as I tear off the girdle, only for it to grow back around days and weeks and months later.
So tonight I fly, on smoke and sex, to the sabbat mound. Tonight I taste the wafer of my souls receipt, bitter and rich, and remember that the only saving grace for me is the one I bleed and scream for. No Christ lamb will take up my soul, no man-faced gods will promise me life after death. I die, we all die, sisters and brothers and cousins, each dark moon, and so we fly from our bodies and ride each others backs, and revel in the knowledge that at least we chose this for ourselves.
The moon is dark, and the grass is cool. We are all one at the sabbat.