Your body is going to be alright, because the Witch in the woods says so.
The world is going to end. We all know that.
Gonna get stabbed in the heart by the Three of Swords. Gonna get the hell out when the conversation goes grim.
Crowds surging, because something is wrong. War is built into our bodies.
Our bodies, wired to our funny brains that can learn to do trigonometry and invent the telephone because we can’t survive without talking about what kind of bread we had for lunch with some random person we found and lost and got lost in. “I miss you, that’s all.” How is a species like us possibly going to survive itself?
This is not science fiction. Not history. It’s just how it is.
The silly little feelings won’t go away.
The silly little feelings want to kill something.
The Witch knows. She walks by your side. Or maybe she doesn’t. You lost your mind a long time ago. When you can’t sleep under the stars, you hold your own hand. In the soft liminal dark, no one sees the way you’re losing your hand to the shape of a claw.
The Witch is the compass. You walk by your own side. When you become an animal, you will belong to the woods. So be it. Maybe you will grow wide, regal, flaming dragon wings. Maybe you will fester, and crawl. Come what may.
Your body is going to be alright. Everyone else should mind their own business.
The Witch is your friend, maybe.
She can’t make it stop hurting. She isn’t sure that’s something you would want.
She can’t give you your body back. Your loss.
She will give you time, though. In good time, we all become what we’re supposed to be.
