The witch embraces her fervent instincts; nurtured by nature, feared by men, perhaps bribed by the devil, and put to the flame. From those that she assign Fate, so easily can she take it away; tears of prophecy that stir in the cup of men. She is drawn away from her natural gift by the men that fear her, imprisoned in their reality, and hiding from her own. Thrice she call upon the forces in which the wind is woven, gathering the might locked beneath her feet, to unleash upon those that hold her collar.
Hold her flesh, burn her heart, poison her mind – this is the will of men. Her will is stronger. The eyes of time give her power. In her palms, she holds patience; pain and suffering glide over them like water. Man tricked man; doomed forever to till the cursed ground. For responsibility is thrown eschew in the heart of man, and this is his punishment. Wicked was she who gave man his cures, for this was the very compassion that was kneaded from her bones and now lay untapped.
Throw your chin to the sky, woman, and open your eyes. Embody your nature, embody all you are meant to be. Throw away these earthly chains you have been imprisoned in, take hold of the clouds, take hold of the sun, of the moon, and gain knowledge through the teachers within the waves. You are meant to hold in both your palms what comes in twos, and your eyes will see all. She will reclaim her time, her beauty in nature, and fight for this freedom once more. It will be her time soon. Begin now. You are the host of truth’s potential.
The temporary state of those within the confined space of their own mind open up their consciousness to what they see in others as less than substantial. Although a temporary affliction can cause this new perception, one returns to the rest, having gained a new pair of eyes, and losing pieces of themselves that they must return to get back; the pieces that cultivate and shift in the eyes of absence. One looks at a whole as now hollow, and hollow as whole – though in this sense, whole does not mean more divine, rather, is a neutral word used to attempt to describe a way in which the view considers.
When one loses the pieces, they find others to fill their place until returning, attempting to search for their own, but are left in a consistent state of trade. One does not leave, but they also do not stay. Eyes that once cried for scraped hands now cry for hollow skies. Dreams became a movie; nightmares were always in wake. A soul never skims, only places itself within undiscovered frameworks. Leading it was nothing, for nothing can lead – and yet what nothing finds is the infinite everything. Two, three, seven, six – it matters not, for matter destroys these fragments that create one’s knowledge of its own existence – a paradox disguised as reality.
A return without stay is incomprehensible, yet it is where we are stuck; a limbo that one cannot ever receive, for receiving requires strength of purity that is unattainable by most, and for most, they are cursed to the isles, but blessed with the waves. You ride the wave, make a ripple effect, or you can play in the sand. Those that swim from the isles back to land, who return, are those that define the ripple. They are its essence, and what it stands for. The ripple paces the way for what is in of itself. Contribution is masked as futile. No more waiting.