There is great comfort in rituals.
I live, I create through combining little crumpled and torn pieces of paper with my random thoughts, feather-weight cobwebs of dreams, wall graffiti, mirrors and sand.
I arrange dusty treasures I found while wandering, bittersweet memories, overheard secrets and desires;
I add the scent of cedar and bergamot and mix it all with ink, coffee and blood because I accidentally prick my finger with a quill while writing, and because most rituals require such commitment.
I believe in grinning at signs granted by the universe, my pricked finger just one of the many I’ve seen today.
Ever since I made a contract with myself to forever seek magic in daily adventures, I do things on a whim, feel the wind on my back, notice hints and make things happen as I wish them to be. I don’t expect anyone else to show me miracles. I paint my own enchanted green door and step out, remembering to leave it half-open.
