The house of the rising moon

  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.