Confessions of a libra

As above so below | Credit: Here

28.10.25

Hi. Welcome to my daydream. Why are you here you ask? Merely to witness. I want your senses titillated, your attention on me as I massage your mind with possibility. Pleasure. That is upper most upon my mind. I’d like to lie and say it’s only now but it’s always. I am a hedonist after all. A hedonist and a maximalist. I write this in a room I’ve steeped in most of the year. All around me are symbols of beauty. Art collected at a market at my third favourite library in this city, the most whimsical one in my eyes (Eltham Library).

A fresh bouquet, a dried bouquet in a Grecian vase and my own paintings staring right at me. The room spray of the moment is a peony spray, though what kind of witch would I be without having incense to bless the space? This is the present but lets imagine me in a charming cottage, thatched roof is non-negotiable. This is my daydream after all. The windows are big with circular stained glass windows for character. The sun is a soft orange with golden rays kissing every surface.

We’re in the kitchen and I’m heating milk on the stove. I’m having hot chocolate because breakfast is my favourite meal of the day and I refuse to suffer in the pursuit of health. I take a sip, the slurp filling up the space before another burst of birds competing for the last word. A sigh escapes my lips, it’s the birds that really make the mornings, I think to myself. I put a record on the player and start my day off with some sassy RnB. In this daydream, I have a black cat. The kind of cat that sells me as someone to watch, but really just allows me to lower people’s defences and destigmatise black cats.

The rabbit binkies into the room causing an unfiltered morning laugh to seep through. I give everyone some love, allowing myself to feel gratitude. This isn’t even the whole brood, but everyone else will get their moment. I envision myself building a little mushroom shed, with ridiculous-looking bulbous boots to set in the feeling of being a manual labourer. Manual labourer but make it cute. I do my little projects outside, wireless headphones cradling me. I do that weeding I said I would do two weeks ago but then I got distracted watching a TV show, then there was that project with a deadline…

Finally my hands are touching soil and Mama Gaia breathes a little deeper. I hear a snort and feel a pressure behind me. I say something cheeky like, stop it Pigly Wigly! I laugh, because animals and their personalities. I feel air on the back of my neck and my hair stands on end. Must be Spirit watching me. I have that feeling again. Internally I acknowledge and send gratitude. Making sure to refresh the offerings on my altar that night. A group arrives for a gathering to discuss an upcoming festival and our contributions to it. We cook together, eat together and sit in front of a bonfire. No one is checking the time, people are only grabbing their phones to change the music or show receipts to their little theories.

We can be loud because the neighbours live too far from the property to be bothered by the noise. We go for a walk at dusk to find that perfect spot to take photos and watch the sun go down. Nothing beats the orange, pink and purple hues across the sky. Deep breaths are the penance for such beauty. The land claims her reward through the trees. We walk back in the dark. This wasn’t even well planned because no one has an actual torch so we use our phones, giggling and bumping into each other as we go. This energy reminds me of youth. Of weightlessness, less obligations and hangouts with friends that seemed to stretch to infinity.

I’m home and it’s been silent for a while. I lay on the lounge, fireplace crackling, skin damp, skin recently oiled and a drink within reach. Ready to dance upon my taste buds, heightening the pleasure of warmth, of silence and independence. A knock at my door pulls me out of my reverie, I walk across the cottage admiring my own handiwork as candles litter the place for the ambience. Flames dancing and licking away as I glide past. I open the door.

There they stand. Her. Him. Them. I cock an eyebrow and step aside. I let destiny play out in every kiss, every bite, every scratch and every groan. I envision some post-coital snacking, leading to playful drizzling of liquids and artistic inspiration. Awkward pauses, inspired pauses. Photos, paintings, notes always in the general vicinity when the heat stimulates creativity. I’m woken up with kisses, or praises and never shouting. I express my gratitude for being spoiled through inspired action.

One thing about me, if you’re good to me my well never dries. You think you know how to be adored until you are the apple of my eye. Practicality, forward-thinking and consideration are my aphrodisiacs. And I always take care of mine. The night ends in the dark, billows of smoke expelling from my lungs in pretty swirls. The body sinks further in the bed. The sheets slip and slide over my skin, caressing softly along the way. The world doesn’t exist from beneath the lacey mosquito net over the canopy bed. The night is silent, the night is mine.