Somewhere between the fire of fury and the ache of despair, there’s a space we rarely explore. Not because we don’t want to—but because it’s terrifying to face. It’s the unspoken truth that the chaos inside us and the voices outside of us are not opposing forces. They’re intertwined, locked in a battle we’re conditioned to believe must end in victory for one or the other. But what if the battle isn’t meant to be won?
When someone tells me to “take time,” it feels like a slap to the face. How can I take time when my brain won’t slow down? When my thoughts aren’t just racing—they’re sprinting towards cliffs I can’t see? To rest feels like a betrayal of my survival instinct. My frantic mind tells me I must keep moving. If I don’t, I’ll fall, and I’ll keep fucking falling.
But even as I lash out at the world’s kindness, I know deep down it’s not them I’m rejecting—it’s me. The part of me that wants to take time. The part of me that craves stillness but doesn’t know how to sit in it without falling apart.
When I hear praise, when someone says, “You look nice,” I don’t feel flattered. I feel rage. Don’t they see what I am? How dare they lie to me, to themselves. But maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe it’s their truth—and my refusal to accept it says more about my relationship with myself than it does about their perception of me.
I think the fury I feel when someone tells me to try something different, to heal —or whatever else I deem myself to be unworthy of— comes from the same place. It’s not that I don’t want to heal. It’s that healing feels like an insult to my pain. My pain, my chaos, my fucking despair—they’ve been my companions for so long that the idea of “fixing” them feels like erasing myself. Who would I be without them? Would I even be me?
But here’s the shift: what if my pain doesn’t need to be erased? What if my chaos isn’t something to conquer but something to sit beside? What if the fire in me isn’t just destruction but also transformation?
I think about fire as an element. It consumes, yes. But it also clears the way for new growth. Forests regrow stronger after a blaze. Some seeds only sprout after being scorched. Fire isn’t just an end—it’s a beginning. So maybe my fury, my despair, my frantic thoughts—they’re not signs of failure or weakness. They’re proof that I’m alive, that I’m burning through the old to make space for the new.
And stillness? Stillness doesn’t have to mean peace. It doesn’t have to mean quiet. Maybe stillness is just letting the chaos exist without fighting it. Sitting in the storm, feeling the rain, and knowing that it won’t last forever, even if it feels endless in the moment.
The lens shifts again, and I see myself not as a battlefield but as a whole. Chaos and calm, fury and despair, pain and possibility—they’re all me. And maybe the goal isn’t to choose one or the other but to find a way to live with both.
So I ask myself: what would it look like to try? Not to fix or fight, but to try—to take one step toward that space between the storm and the stillness. To take time, not to escape my mind but to meet it where it is. To believe, even for a moment, that I am both the fire and the seed waiting to grow.
As I sit writing this, Storm Darragh is tearing through the countryside. It’s strange… it feels like something is calling me. There is a longing to join, to surrender to the storm. Finally fuck it all and give myself over to the raw, ancient, spirit screaming at my window… inviting me to play. It demands to be heard, felt, witnessed. It is both messenger and force, whispering secrets one moment and roaring its defiance the next. The wind isn’t gentle—it presses into the cracks, shakes the foundations, insists on attention.
If the wind is seeking an audience, perhaps it’s time to listen.
An Ancient Herald
The wind howls through the eaves,
A voice older than time,
Ethereal and wild,
Not bound by the rules of this world.
It does not ask permission;
It takes space,
It rattles the panes,
Sends leaves spiralling,
Shakes the earth itself.
One moment, it sings—
A keening, haunting song
That pulls at the soul,
The kind of sound that makes you stop
And wonder if the wind remembers
Something you’ve forgotten.
The next, it is fury incarnate,
Ripping through, unrelenting,
Stripping away the pretence of calm,
Leaving only truth in its wake.
The wind is chaos,
But it is not mindless.
It is a force of reckoning,
Of transformation,
Of movement.
A Windborne Invitation
If the wind seeks an audience,
Step outside.
Feel its cold fingers on your skin,
Its push and pull against your chest.
Let it tear through your hair,
Through the walls you’ve built around yourself.
Let it carry away the weight you cannot name,
The thoughts you cannot silence.
Whisper to it the secrets you’ve hidden,
The ones too heavy to keep.
The wind listens,
Not with sympathy,
But with the kind of understanding
That only comes from being untamed.
Breathe it in,
Let it fill your lungs,
Let it stir the embers inside you.
The wind is here to move you,
To shake you loose
From where you’ve been stuck.
It is raw, wild, primal—a summons that cannot be ignored. The wind is a herald, carrying the call of the Phantom Queen herself, driving you to rise, to rage, to make yourself known. I’ve heard her before, sometimes a whisper, others, like this— a scream from which there is no surrender. It’s the kind of storm that pulls at your very essence, demanding that you act, that you claim your strength, your voice, your fight.
The Queen of Shadows
The Morrigan is the embodiment of duality. She is the dark goddess of battle, prophecy, and transformation, often seen as a fearsome figure in Celtic mythology. But beneath her shadowed wings lies wisdom and power that calls to those who dare to face themselves.
She doesn’t shy away from destruction—she wields it with purpose. She appears holding a knife to my throat, demanding I see that endings are necessary for beginnings, and that chaos carves the way for clarity. She calls me when I have tried to forget— when I try to bury who I am, when I am spiralling further out of control.
“Find the courage to sit with your fury!” Her voice pierces, screeching into the night, the storm awash with crows. She is both a mirror and a guide, showing us our truths no matter how we try to hide from them.
The Morrigan is a goddess of sovereignty.
“Claim your power, take ownership of the broken pieces— stand tall amidst the storm!” Cries woven into the turbulence beyond.
To call upon her is to ask for transformation—but transformation requires us to surrender to the fire.
The Call to Arms
The wind screams through the night,
Not a whisper but a battle cry,
A force that shakes the bones
And stirs the soul to action.
It is not gentle;
It tears, it pulls, it demands.
Stand up, it howls.
Do not kneel.
Do not cower.
Rise.
The rain lashes against the earth,
Each drop a drumbeat of defiance,
Each gust of wind a challenge
To the stagnant, to the silent.
And in the fury of the gale,
The crows take flight,
Feathers black against the silver storm,
Spiralling skyward like smoke.
The Phantom Queen is here.
Her voice carries on the wind,
A keening wail,
A cry of battle,
A promise of change.
You feel it in your chest,
In your blood,
That unrelenting power—
Not just hers, but yours.
Let the wind be your ally.
Let the rain cleanse your doubt.
Let the crows carry your fury
To the heavens and beyond.
This is your moment.
Stand tall, let your voice ring out.
The storm is yours to command,
And with it, the Phantom Queen walks beside you.
The Rising Storm
And so, I stand—
Not in the shadow of the storm, but within it, arms wide, a soul alight with the wind’s fury. The crows spiral, the rain lashes, The Phantom Queen watches.
This is my reckoning. This is my roar. The storm does not break me; It makes me.
Morrigan, I walk with you. Wind, carry my voice. Rain, cleanse my fear. Crows, take my fury skyward.
Let the world hear:
I am here. I will rise. I will fight. The storm is mine. My voice and hers, the wind and the crows, the rain and the roar, all entwined.
