shivering pre-Samhain

October 31, 2007 at 3:16 pm (celebrations, original poetry/prose, Roísín's History, the Muse sings)

The Lady sits shivering near the hearth, wrapped in a cloak while the cold stormwinds blast through the room. The only light is that from the crackling fire and the occasional flash of lightning, splintering through the room from beyond the wall of stained glass. She speaks low, only just above the sound of the storm, as her eyes gaze dully into the flame.

I’ve been hiding indoors for most of the last week, avoiding the real recognition of the holiday. Now I realize it. Now I can see those ghosts that have been flitting fast through my mind, fast enough that I could let myself be endlessly distracted that I not see them. But not today. Today I can see them, they are so close and move so slow: each one a threat, like someone riding past too slow, watching with hard eyes.

They are there, chastising, reminding me of some of the consequences of a long life, passionately-lived. Oh, the sprites of success are easy to see, even if they fade too quickly. But these subtle spectres of the dead are my guilt, my failures: the lives that slipped from my fingers, and those I flicked off the cliff. I don’t know all their names; it is the ones I can call nothing, the ones that are only faces staring, that frighten me the most.

Like any passing anniversary, the older we get, the more we think on our regrets. The more we fear, I fear, what all those black marks of the past have done to me. Oh, nearly always, I think, those are necessary mistakes, there to teach me how to be better, to remake my soul into something finer. To never make those painful mistakes again, knowing the horrid consequences. But when those mistakes have faces, that stare out from surprising shadows? … Some nights, I am haunted.

I don’t want to meet their eyes. Are they even real? I am afraid they’ll see the tangle of my fear and carelessness and cruelty and blast me to dust in their vengeful fury. More than anything, I think, I fear those who might not quite be dead yet… that might still be revivable, if only I knew how to help them live again. Those are the mistakes I am still making, every minute of every day and night that I allow them to go on needing me, and me not able to bring them back to life.

Oh, the season is dark, and thick with ghosts, but the chill and the boney trees and the mysteries of thin veils still make of it a sweet, strange thrill. I love October.  Life is still good.
My sister, sister to my spirit, I spoke with her through the aethers, yesterday… it was such a boon to my heart. Now I must sing, or she may not hear my words…

Swirling crimson, twisting down
red red blood or long curl of hair

which is it that trails away
is it only an unfurling ribbon?

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3 Comments

  1. Morpheus said,

    And if you gaze into the abyss;
    the abyss gazes also into you…

  2. Emilly Orr said,

    Always.

    But regrets distill our essence, turning dross into gold. Regrets are promises. Regrets are reasons to grow.

    As long as you’re not fenced in by them, as long as you have room to breathe…and I know, believe me, I know, sometimes that is *very* difficult…you’ll be fine.

  3. DarklingRose said,

    thankyeh, my dears. /smiles softly/

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