I’m a part of what weaves my story, but there are sudden bursts of searing insight which remind me that I am not the only who weaves it, nor are my choices ever only my own.
Shall I explain? How can I, really, except to impart fragments just as I view them–not shattered, but patch-work glimpses of glittering reflections strung along by fascinating threads.
First of all, did you know gods-worshippers are a fantastically radical lot? Not just strange or queer, but good gods do they seem to exist with a burning fire ready to torch the darkness. And funny, as I forgot this of myself, that what I want to tear down is a hedge between here and Other.
I met a particular person today, an occasional Pagan writer, a gods-worshipper, and a ferocious activist whose whole form and persona vibrated with what could only be called a sort…
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