My hair smells of coconut, dripping down my back as I sit in the candlelight.
I strike a match, squinting as it lights, illuminating the curls of incense smoke. I light the last candle for Midsummer, carefully, inhaling the smells of berries coming from the oil burner.
My feet warm against the carpet, I try to think of fruitfulness, fire, the wheel of the year. I think about strength and hope, surrounded by the circle of candles.
My mind begins to wander listlessly, unusually for me of late. I fruitlessly try and stop the empty, chasing thoughts, but eventually I stand, pace, sprawl on my bed. My eyes are wide open now, the scents and smells only teasing my racing mind. My stomach churns and hands wring, going over and over the pain and regrets since Ostara, through Beltane and now, Midsummer.
The sun is supposed to brighten lives, I think, remembering the nightmares, my father’s long, sad face, the unforgiving textbooks.
I stare into open window, the candles reflected in its smooth black surface, and my thoughts become prayers. For Friday, not to be too nervous, and for the aftermath, when it is a truer reality than I’d like to admit that I will have to deal with the terrible fallout of failing.
If I have failed, I think, I lose everything. I stand again, heart racing, and imagine it: calling my law firm, owing them £11,000,getting my job revoked. Not being able to be a lawyer. The thought thuds in my stomach and I sit down again.
It is a crying shame that no amount of spiritual perspective can change this.
I blink rapidly, and vow not to think about it again. I blow out the candles and stare into the night.
I am thinking of good outcomes, wishing you the best of luck.
Take care,
Sheryl (from WaveofModulation, used to see you at Amanda B’s place)