Confessions of a libra

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03.05.2025

I’m in pain. The physical pain of healing from the ground up. In real time, I alchemise this pain. With every sharp stab in my body I direct it into the ether. I will every cell to work to put me back together again. My every tear is a siren song, a call to the universe for action. I demand justice and I work for it patiently. You feared me before, believe me you will fear me after. For those graced with knowing me for several seasons, one thing about me is I never go back. Never lower your defences on my account. For if I threaten you now, I will damn sure be even more frightening in a few months, in a year. It’s funny how people can laugh at your pain, believing it to be some sort of cosmic punishment. Those with insecure spirits believe that I would deserve it. We cannot play in the same playing field when I operate from a higher perspective. You think my ancestors would forsake me? Me, who has healed the epigenetic trauma carried by my mother and her mother before her. You are sorely mistaken. The invisible threads I weave belong to a game far before your time. Far beyond your comprehension. My soul is older than you can fathom. I wear the evidence on my skin, in my gaze and in my care. I stand as a representative of a lineage so regal, it makes grown men quake at my feet. I spent so long dumbing myself down for the crowd. Being told as a child that I was intimidating. Am I intimidating, or are you intimidated? Quickly, now!

When asked what kind of world I want to build, what kind of world I envision, I am called an idealist. Dare I believe that we can operate from a place of true heart-centred community. As you would find in the matriarchal spiral. Injustice lights a fire in me so deep that it spurs me on to continue. To fight harder, to climb higher. Your hierarchies offend me, purely because they are in place to degrade and to never be questioned. Where you view your fellow humans as step-stools on your way to success, I see the potential for great collaboration. At a grand scale. The kind of effort that changes the world, changes perception and heals. It sickens me to watch people be devalued when they cannot be a sleepy cog in a machine. For Big Brother is always watching, thank you George Orwell. The future I dream is vast with possibility. There is a seat for everyone at the table. No one misses out on a morsel of nourishment.

I’m writing again. My long-lost love. The words spill from me like ink from quill. The worlds I am building are a reflection of the intricacies of my mind. I yearn to take you on a journey of truth. A journey of feelings so raw and brave they make you stop. They make you reflect. That is the purpose of anything I write. My journal entry for the future generations. A blog post or a novel. My words will survive me. I long to leave a literary imprint on my fellow souls. I long to be the book you reach for, the lesson you’ll never forget. It’s why I turn my pain into art. For all the great artists do. Like a true artist, my impact will only be felt far after I am gone. The way we revere Vincent Van Gogh, when in life he lived in misery. For that is the way of the world. Doomed to realise the impact of visionaries after their time has passed. My pain serves a reminder that I am human. It reminds me that I can overcome. It reminds me of my sensitivity, a gift not a weakness. Pain is the reminder that my sacred vessel still stands. From now, until the hour of my death.