Rolling Fog,

“Rollin’, rollin’ on a river.” A river of fog. Not lost nor found. No elaborate start or finish. A fog blurring my sight to help me see clearer on the other side.

Why do I like you, fog? You give me moments to breathe. You gift me the feeling that I don’t have to be in it all the time. Rolling fog, why do you keep me rolling till I trip or run into something that I have to face? What’s your face like? Who are you?

To me, you feel like a sea in the brisk morning before dawn kisses my cheek. Reminding me, the precipice of the orange pink hues that will glaze into my eyes. To me, you’re like a wilted flower getting ready to bounce back up after being trampled on. Showing me the resiliency of my own nature.

I watch you, fog, traveling over hills to hills till you reach the flatlands and keep dispersing your love out into the world beyond us.

Rolling fog, come swoop me into your peace and bliss till you melt and land me right where I need to be. Helping smooth my edges so I can see once again and face the day.

Oh Rolling Fog.

-Bleed 2 Cycle Day 2

I feel lying to yourself and being something you’re not goes hand in hand with me. I feel sometimes it doesn’t have to be a negative thing. When you are at your ends wit, but are a single parent trying to make sure your kid is seen, held, fed, taken care of, sometimes you have to put on a face to make sure it happens. No? Maybe you just lose your shit and go into a spiral being locked in bed for days on end instead of faking it. I know for myself, I go through both.

I am so grateful I have friends around me that call me out on my shit and check me when I am not being true to myself. I almost lost a friendship over it recently when I reenacted a childhood trauma to get attention. I was taught to be really dramatic and over the top to get the love I need. Things had to get really bad for me to be seen growing up. So I thought that’s what needed to happen with my friendships. Play the role of someone who has a concussion and give it your all baby! You are the star of the show! Freak the fuck out and pretend you’re seizuring. Wanting to give the body the space to express itself, but don’t forget to give it that umph! No, they did not want to hold me in my play. In the theater of torturing myself and self sabotaging. However, I wasn’t just self sabotaging myself, but hurting others in the midst of it. Hurting my dear loved ones that I care so much and would do anything for. So when my best friend sat me down and called me out, no called me in, I had to stop this cycle, go back inward, and do the work. Care for my little me, remind her she is safe and loved to be just as she is while I started a fire in my eternal hearth and warmed her up.

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Creative Writing Prompt: How are you lying to yourself? Time to Write: 14min

My imagination started so young. I never wanted to give it away. It was the only escape that I felt truly safe and held in. Even seen in. Being an outwardly child myself, living in the mundane world was excruciating.

I remember I was in 1st grade when I started losing grip on the other world, I was being suffocated by homework, chores, family trauma, and elementary school anxiety. Till my teacher took us on a field trip to my school library. The librarian rambled on for hours about all the different non fiction subjects and history books.

When she finished she took a big sigh and then started sharing about the fiction section. Once her mouth sounded out the words “Magic Tree House” my body lit up and brought a surge of energy to my feet. I was up and headed to the section she was leading us to. I knew in my bones that this would be my outlet that no one could take away from me or tell me otherwise.My dad couldn’t argue because it was a book and he always forced me to read. My mom was in her own world and was supportive when things made me happy. Especially if it was surface level, because then she didn’t have to feel or do much.

I asked myself, even through the excitement, why fiction, specifically fantasy, has to have such a bad fucking rep? Like seriously. Do humans not understand that we are so brainwashed in this Western world that all the magick we were born with gets drained and locked away within us? That magick isn’t real? That it’s a make believe product that destroys a reality we were forced to weave in? Fuck that.

I held onto that last speck of light within me knowing deep in my soul as a little girl, that no one or nothing could suck it out of me. It is my compass to the unseen. It is all of what my soul represents. Now that peck of light is a raging fucking river made of many different universes in my precious petite body.

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Creative Writing Prompt: Your Childhood Book/ Time to Write: 14min.

She was old. Old with carvings no one in the mindseye could read. No, these carvings were for the ones you could feel beyond the veil. Although old, she did not squeak nor did she have any indents in her that made her look physically worn. You felt the ancientness from her miles away. As if she had energy pulsating out of her like the living. If you stood close enough to her in complete stillness, you could hear a humming so faint in the daylight, but almost like an orchestra in the dead of night.

They call this the Ancestor Door. Some say when the door is unlocked, there is no beginning and no end. It’s a timeless dance that warps and wraps you around it. Where you hear and feel everything at once and lose your mind. Swallowing you up like a black hole. Others say it’s a door for feasting. When you walk beyond the veil to the other side there are creatures beyond your imagination that will eat you up and use your bones, hair, and sinew for shelter and weapons.

My great grandmother has opened this door, and been the only one who ever came out. She no longer speaks or moves. She needs nurses’ support to live now. Through the ghostly host, her eyes twinkle with something beyond this world. She was a vibrant woman, courageous, and always looking for an adventure. Till the day she walked through the carven door.