The complete absence of T.'s chosen one hurts me in a strange way.
It hurts me as a person, because we were going down a very nice path, and obviously, at the very least, I like him. There was no time to fall in love, of course - but my feelings for him go beyond a crush, for example.
It hurts me as a soul because I feel I'm failing T. and L. by not being able to take the relationship with the one they both chose to be my family forward.
But... Yesterday, when I went to see my teacher, my leg started to bruise out of the blue, all day long. And another child bite appeared, on the same leg as the bite that became a scar last month, but on the front of the thigh this time.
Considering that these two things have only happened once in my life, when my uncle was fucking with me and redoing the spell whose purpose is to prevent me from enjoying my completeness as a woman, I decided to stop procrastinating and write down the list of ingredients in the ebó that Taurina received from Oxalá during the conch reading.
I'll list it in this post, so I feel more obliged to keep my word since it seems like I'm promising something to others (even if I'm not, at least it's worth it).
A situation in my life led me to reflect on who would be responsible if someone took a certain action after a reading from any oracle.
A few things were passed on to me by my master, although I haven't had many lessons with her yet: never talk about betrayal; don't identify those responsible for murders; warn the consultant not to take any action aimed at finding out more about the subject of the drawing. And I followed all these rules.
One of the waitresses at the café where I study every day asked me to see what had happened to her brother, who had been missing for two years. She (called S. here) had dreamt that he was dead and came to me for confirmation.
I confirmed it, said that the death took place in Rio de Janeiro, and that he was in a serious relationship at the time. The waitress asked me to tell her if he was single or not, as there was a possibility that he had left a child before he died, which I promptly realised was non-existent in the letters. Yes, the brother had died. He had died during a serious relationship, but there are no children from that relationship.
He had died on a trip to Rio de Janeiro, probably to seek a better life (this was told to me by the gypsy). I learnt more about who had ordered his murder and how he had died, and I realised that it was because he was involved in a dangerous life, which would bring harm to me and the deceased's family if I revealed it. The gypsy told me not to reveal it, and I didn't.
That happened a few days ago. Today, when I arrived at the café, one of the other girls told me that the waitress I did the reading for hasn't been to work since, and that she justifies her absences by what I revealed in the letters a few nights ago. Immediately, I felt a sense of guilt beyond belief.
I was told this information about the absence of the deceased's sister from her work twenty minutes ago. And as I write, I feel an immense and irrepressible urge to cry. I feel responsible.
The girls are having to deal with a reasonably full café because of the rainy days, with one less employee, and I feel guilty. It's my fault, isn't it? For revealing information that led to the behaviour of waitress S., who decided not to come to work anymore.
However, waitress F. told me that S. had learnt nothing more from my letters. I only confirmed what she already knew. From what I understood, waitress F. was telling me that I wasn't responsible, because I hadn't given her any new facts that she could focus on to justify her behaviour.
But I can't see it that way. And so I began to debate in my mind whose responsibility it is for actions taken in the face of a print run?
Do I bear responsibility for waitress S.'s continual absences from work, because the reason for her absences is information given to her by me? Or is it her responsibility for missing work? If she dies going after the information I didn't reveal, because I realised it would be dangerous, and I warned her to leave it alone, is it her responsibility for killing her, for the act itself; hers, for going after what she shouldn't have; or mine, for warning her to avoid such an action?
Uncle Ben was right. With great powers obviously come great responsibilities. Are my gift of clairvoyance and the others that make me the witch's soul that I am, blessings or curses in this case? Isn't the responsibility for this waitress's faults mine, because I'm the trigger? It could be, but doesn't she have her own brain to make her own decisions and attitudes?
Do I still feel like crying, feeling guilty? Absolutely. Whether the other girls blame me, I don't know. I have to be responsible for what I reveal, don't I? Wouldn't it be better if I just didn't open any more letters to anyone, even if they asked? Would that be a heretical attitude on my part? Am I denying gifts that are blessings instead of aptitudes that I see as curses at times like these?
Would it be better to have these gifts or to have them taken back by the Gods, since I apparently haven't been using them properly? What would be the right way, given that there are no manuals? Should I take the continual presence of these gifts within my reach as an approval from the deities of how I've been using them, considering that the gods show no mercy, least of all to mortals who use the gifts they've given incorrectly?
To conclude this text, I asked the waitress F. and the waitress I. if they blamed me for the actions taken by the waitress S., and they both said they did not.
"It's her actions, not yours. You're a nice customer, you make us laugh, you trust us, we trust you... There's no reason to hold you responsible for her behaviour when we know and have heard what you've told her and it's not the first time she's been like this. You were just the latest justification," said I., who isn't very talkative.
Still, the question remains. Whose great responsibilities stem from such great "powers" (being, in fact, the powers of the Gods and entities, we humans are only allowed access to them, not their "owners")?
In my opinion, the oracle therapist has a duty to translate what the spiritual plane has to say to those who can't instinctively interpret and translate the signs - it's another language, just like any other. A witch is a native speaker of such a language if she's a medium, while someone who wasn't born with access to the spirit world will have to make an active effort to become fluent. What about the consulter's responsibilities?
I've seen texts about the responsibility of oracles. The right of the consultant is to know the message that the spirit world has to give them. What about duties? What are the duties of a consultant in the face of a draught?
Maybe in a few months I'll have an answer to this within my own spiritual development.
Me queimei rezando; derrubei 7 livros no meu pé enquanto tentava colocá-los no armário; meu baralho ficou gosmento de caramelo porque tinha na mesa; tive que sair sem minhas alianças, pois era o dia de agradar a Juno; esqueci de colocar meu talismã da Ísis no meu bolso antes de sair; me mandaram parar de embaralhar no café dizendo que eu estava atrapalhando com o barulho das cartas; meu cartão não pegou para eu subir de novo; errei a maquiagem; minha lente rasgou no olho; escorreguei no banho; meu porta-velas de 7 dias quebrou na minha mão e uma ponta do vidro dele cortou meu dedão.
Com tudo isso, óbvio que minha fé vai oscilando. E tudo piora quando não consigo achar o ankh que a Senhora Ísis me mandou comprar. Comprei. Lembro de tê-lo recebido. E enfiei no cu.
Mais uma vez, brigo com a minha mãe por sentir que ela está me criticando demais, e mais uma vez, ela está coberta de razão. Mais uma vez, ela sabia que eu deveria ter falado menos. Ela me avisou. Ela me avisou para aprender a calar a boca. E eu não fiz. Mas ela me avisou. Ela me avisou para segurar a onda. Não segurei. E ela me avisou.
Que caralhos… Toda vez que a questiono, tudo vai pelos ares.
Cansei… vou só ficar em casa para o resto da vida, mesmo. Para quê ir para o café todo dia? Para fingir que é uma rotina? Não tenho trabalho, não consigo ganhar nem um centavo. Se ela me expulsar agora, não tenho literalmente nada que seja de fato meu, nem o cachorro, já que ela que trouxe para casa. Não tenho amigos, não tenho envolvimento amoroso/afetivo com ninguém, minha única família, e ainda assim bem titubeante, é minha mãe. Minha psicóloga só me ouve porque ela recebe para isso — perderia o apoio dela assim que não pagasse mais. Não tenho mais alegria fazendo nada.
De quê adianta ficar indo à mestre? Gasto só o tempo dela e o dinheiro da minha mãe com isso.
Na verdade, para quê caralho estou escrevendo aqui? De novo, fazendo algo inútil e fingindo ser importante.
Finjo que coisas são relevantes para não enxergar a verdadeira fracote de merda que eu sou. Chega. Cansei de fingir. É mais fácil aceitar que realmente sou uma garotinha mimada que finge que decide coisas da própria vida que, na verdade, são decididas pela mãe. Todo esse tempo e não saí do lugar.
Não tenho mais vontade de fazer nada. Nem de chorar. Eu só estou… anestesiada, vazia. Eu não tenho outro humor. Só finjo que sim. Mas, na verdade, sou uma carcaça não só vazia por dentro, mas podre por fora.
Não tem utilidade manter esse blog de porra nenhuma. Nem boa bruxa sou, nem boa oraculista. Nem devo me chamar dessas coisas, na verdade.
Sou só uma farsante de bruxa e uma farsante de oraculista. Finjo que estou vivendo, quando, na verdade, eu nem vida tenho.
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