The moon is rising above our derelict
building. Loud shouts and moans are spreading from our big bed in our bedroom
and to the streets outside. I feel sweaty bodies push against mine, hot skin
rubbing mine, and I feel an ecstasy that will always pleasantly surprise and
overwhelm me, like a tall wave on the beach embracing me and pushing me far
away.
My friends and I live together, breathe and
fuck and move together. The poignancy of it all keeps stunning me, as the years
pass by.
We live together in a collective, which is
always difficult. There is bound to be quarrels and disagreements, but I would
say we handle that splendidly.
There is no jealousy, nothing even resembling
it. In my opinion it is only a problem with truly fucked up people.
People keep telling us that there should be,
that there should be more unrest within our four walls, but the way I see it,
that’s merely them making an effort at projecting their own bias and limitation
unto us.
It is inevitable, of course. We call
ourselves witches and we are obviously something closely resembling a fertility
cult. Our wild parties aren’t exactly a secret. We are doomed to be hassled by
a despairing world. Most of the pressure comes from the outside, not the
inside, not from us. We love who we are and the life we have chosen for
ourselves.
There is solitude when we feel we need it. We
are, after all far stronger individuals than most people, in the world outside
our walls. But it isn’t like we’re being pushed at the group. We seek its power and
its joy almost constantly, but we are our own beings, fiercely independent
humans.
And it is that we bring to the group, to the
tribe, in this, our brief home on the wave of eternity.
