Today I am scrubbing my house.
I am cleaning up the mess that has been eating my life, as part of my Work for Her.
I need to respect myself, She says.
I need to take care of myself, She says.
I can’t do that in this Cthulhu-like mess.
Clean house. Then formal ritual dedicating a whip to Her. Then feast.
It’s Her holiday, so it’s special.
I’ve been renting out my space.
Sovereignty is total control over my own body, my own life, my mental and spiritual space. It’s what I aspire to in my worship of The Morrigan; it’s what I’m supposed to do for Her. She wants a tool that is sovereign; one that’s untainted by others’ energies and maliciousness. (The same idea for my own tools — I’m not happy when someone else’s energy gets on them.)
And I’ve been renting out my space.
I do this too often. And the tenants have left a mess for me to clean up.
I’m tired of being a landlady. For all I give them, they give shit back.
The land of my life is tired and broken. It grows nothing. I am barren, a wasteland wrought by people’s greed. There isn’t even any rain anymore, because it takes too much energy to cry.
All I can do is post an eviction notice.
Knock, knock. Your time using me up is done. Get out.