I still feel the pulling of the dark moon asking me to be present to my shadow, and the strange pin pricks of intuition along my skin reminding me why at 9 years old I named my cat Shadow. I danced with feline phantoms and carried the spirit of the black cat in my bones.
I feel done with poetry and trying to confine these words that rush out of me into lines that flow. Stories now speak for me. They have to when I struggle to speak otherwise. I still see little me drawing gagged girls in ripped stockings and rib cages. Let art speak the words that we cannot.
And here I am walking down forest paths, letting the plants and trees stroke my skin as I pass by, sometimes drawing delicate lines on my flesh with their fleeting fingers. I don't say a word as I watch the ferns wave their intricate leaves. Their touch reminds me that I am there, alive and breathing, bone and blood, water and tea. There is nothing more important than that. I let go of all the pressures of being a sensitive soul in a society built for harshness, of the whole construct of artists not being worthwhile humans, of my bloodline trauma, of my own trauma, of cynicism, of being belittled. I let go. And I breathe in time with the trees and I breathe the breath of birthing flowers, and this is it. This is all there is.. until the next moment and the next, passing by like shooting stars or sighs in the wind.
I keep walking down the forest path until the magpies sing me home, until the sun disappears behind the mountains.
— An Autumn walk, 17th of May, 2018.