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Ronin Priestess

Ronin Priestess has completed the following batches:
   

 


INTERESTS:

She is a lock without a key. A puzzle, a solveless mystery. You can't touch her. She wants you to. But you can't touch her. She is not what lies beyond the door. She is the doorway.

Was she ever as bad as her dreams imply? Yes, she wearily believes, yes. She feels the weight of all that badness, crushing her heart. The loving death-grip of the shadow. All that terrible stuff. She's a haunted castle, this one.

She lives in the spaces of life. She finds those moments; sees them with a startling clarity, slips into them. Afternoon shifts toward evening, the day is rainy, the skies thick with soft cloud. They descend into the woods, walking the dog. The forest is like a jungle, lush, dense and dripping, full of moisture. Birds call out, sing; sweet voices in an echo chamber. The stream is a quiet murmur, the waters dark.

Mist hangs between the trees, and where a fallen young oak has left a space in the canopy, the dead and brown leaves on the ground glow golden beneath the milky sky above. Otherwise the air is green with shade. And the breath of the world is a thousands spices and scents, a narcotic brew, dirt and flowers and grass and leaves, water and the fragrance of things impossible to name.

She is in another place, altogether.

Is there anything that can live forever in a moment such as this? Is this what she has forsaken?

This is where faeries dwell. And angels. And those who have fallen, and are left outside. Those who have fallen must find their own way back. Or at least find the spaces to slip into, the moments that ought to last forever, but don't.

Somewhere, this key must unlock something.

Not all of her dreams are of badness. Some of them are of Home. She supposes those are memories, too. Perhaps not even her own, any more than all of this will belong to whoever remembers it. Nothing but the endless Wheel. If that's so, she thinks, then Home must be at the very center.

Do you begin to remember as you get closer? She feels so very far away. The weight of her badness is crushing her. Has she known, felt, all of this before? She is the scorpion that stings the turtle as it carries her across the stream, drowning them both.

I am a lock without a key. I am a puzzle. A mystery. You can't touch me; that's my fate. You can't touch me. I want you to. But you can't.

I was damned before I was born

EMAIL:
nytewitch@gmail.com