- Vol. 08
- Chapter 10
She's been called many things.
Perhaps she is those things. Perhaps she's just unique in her comfort with herself. The rest of the world seems intent on finding out which it is. To her, it's just her way of being.
She doesn't look special in any way, and yet she does. Her aura reveals her true nature whether she wants it to or not. She usually sits in a corner, seemingly reading a book. Part of the world, yet detached from it. Caught in her own thoughts. A dreamer. If you try to talk to her, there is no response. Why would she bother, lost in herself as she is?
Why hang out with others when her own company is enough? Why spend time among what she sees with her physical eyes when what she sees with her inner eyes is much more interesting?
Her mind is a canvas, her thoughts the brush strokes. A universe takes shape within her, one you will never see. In there she can be anyone she wants. Some days she is the Queen, tended to and responsible for hundreds of servants. Other days she is the stable hand, preparing the horses for Her Majesty's afternoon ride. Such is the power of imagination, and she relishes in it.
It's not only during the day, either. The night is, in fact, the best time for dreaming. Especially during the new moon.
It's funny. She sits there in her corner of the club, waiting for the right time to initiate the transition. Her surroundings, the music, the blinking lights, the people, none of it matters. It surprises her that it matters to so many. Why stay cooped up in here, when your thought could make you fly anywhere, any time? Why remain in the now, when something beyond what's humanly possible called for you to join it?
There it was. The softest of tingles; the way she'd always thought silver bells sounded (how disappointing the actual sound had been!).
She opens her eyes, focuses on the page in front of her. It shimmers in the semi-darkness of her corner, its letters glittering strokes that dances across the page. The tingling continues as they twist and turn, reshaping themselves into a beautiful landscape; a meadow filled with flowers and a massive oak tree at its heart. The landscape, painted in silver from the moon hanging in the sky, whispers her name.
She looks up, glances at her friends on the dance floor. Surely it would be a crime to interrupt their good time?
Instead, she prepares herself. One breath. Two. Then she gives in to the pull, feels the fibres of her being getting sucked out of the material, into the mysteriously ethereal. It wouldn't last long; the magic never did. But for a few hours each month, she could live beyond her earthly limits.
She could be the Goddess she was born to be.