"There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott. "
-Tennyson
"Is all that we see or seem
but a dream within a dream?"
-Poe
I am a 23 year old Wiccan in the midwest US. I have large ambitions and hopes, and I work hard to find them realized... Easy to approach and talk to, and I am seeking genuine kinship, given that I was raised in a very strict catholic household.
Unfortunately, the place I live in, the city, means near seclusion from faith communities, given the high number of catholics and other christian variants in my city.
I have been practicing for about two years or so, on my own, before, only reading, and I am ready to blossom my potential. I am a seer; I see paranormal, and have inexplicable visions and experiences, although, I feel are more vague than other psychics, given that I identify through empathy. This makes me a strong reader of tarot and energy channeling. These subtlties I have been quietly using and developing, however, I fear my empathy makes it hard to balance my own energies at times because of the overwhelming emotions and energy I receive on a daily basis. I often suffer panic attacks when I am shocked at my own negative emotions, and I feel that refining and sharpening my magick through seeking faith community here may help me find centering.
My name Caoimh is short for Caoimhsearch. It is pronounced "keev", or the latter, "keevuhsoch," and is Irish Gaelic for my Latin name.
I currently work at a grocery store, but, I sing opera, speak five languages, I was in University for Microbiology, but have redefined my life pursuit; I now want to be an organic farmer with homeopathic remedies and treatments to offer, and yoga certification. So, I am working this job to save for this goal and pay off my previous debts from University, and go forward in confidence.
---
It was within the morning hours;
Darkly dawning morn to rise
Amidst the slumbered fray an' shore,
The gray of light had touched the skies,
And darkness left in ardent cower
But shadow lingered there affore
In greeting wake of he who dies,
And fondly lay with as he lies.
The wind finds melody to score;
Somber, soft, as dawn draws nigh,
As dawn is grey, and light is sour,
And poetry is but dread and wry.
And idle hopes desire more,
Ideal in the dismal hour,
Falsity as sure we die,
And dismal-wrought, our grave to lie;
The promise of our day to die?
