When I am in pain, I do that. Mist and fog are comforting to me. I need...crave...my space and a time and un-structuredness to heal. I need my sisters and the Old Ones.
New pastels and watercolours are coming. New beginnings in a project Arthur and I are going to do. There is so much hope here. My artwork is taking me out and back and into other areas now. So much in my heart that I want to put down on paper with ink and colors. Wrapping the paint and pages around me as a warm, old blanket. But here....here is where I hide...
Moving through the forests and the dry grass...carefully picking out the flat stones on the waters edge....barely discernible through the mist and dark, I have gone this way before...hundreds if not thousands of times. Weaving my song quietly, knowing the spell to unlock the gates when I come to them. The Watchers mark my coming and lift the veil of snow. I am going to the Isle, going where none can follow me unless they know...are one of us...and there are so very few of us left.