the magic you invite, and the mysteries you don't
the strangeness that unbidden comes, twisting sights and bending sounds, making voices from rain and visions from dream. you want to believe in secret orders for the likes of us; you want to believe there is a place for us, however hidden, in this world built for you, built up through our absence, our destruction, and in all the bricks beneath your feet there are mystics still screaming. you imagine the strangeness might be invited, entreated, bartered with, even befriended, because you will not face the will-less strangeness that acts through you, the violence of which you remain a part. there are no schools for us, no orders for us, and all the traditions of our ancestors have been crushed to dust, and all the shards churned into palatable tales: friendly witches who enact your normalcy as you turn a thousand-year knife, the act so banal, so timeless, that you have forgotten it entirely, and the blood you spill never enters your mind.
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