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Welcome to Your Fever Dream, Sicko: Transmutation ...

Welcome to Your Fever Dream, Sicko: Transmutation of an Ailing Witch

Let this fever work its nasty magick. I am surrendering to this persistent boil and sinking deeper into my own, personal swelter. May this fresh hell determine my fate. I trust the thunderous aches to throb in all the right places, to break apart my too-rigid joints, and to tenderize my too-tough skin. I am succumbing to an unholy descent, pulled well below the surface of the lake of fire against my will and stripped of my flame-proof armor. I am leaving behind all memory of the topside world, and I give up my right to return.

Welcome to your fever dream, sicko, sneers the fuzzy-winged and so-charming demoness. We have been waiting for you here in the walled-up bowels of your psyche, hoping you’ll let down your guard just enough that we can seep into your most defended places and take root. This is your soul’s Underworld, and you have no choice now but to stay and rot. We will peck away at your pink flesh and paint our faces with your blood; you’ll beg us to do it, for the alternative is sheer boredom and permanent stagnation. We will eat away at those parts you cling to so tightly, and we’ll rip your bones from their sockets and fashion graven images from your ribs.

Lie on our surgeon’s table willingly, and we will leave behind only the truest and rawest parts of you. This band of hellspawn has ridden roughshod inside you on the current of unbridled temperatures and, now that our long fingers have wrapped around your too-hot limbs, we are not letting go. You belong to us now, and we must feast on your courage to prepare you for the ascent.
Welcome to your fever dream, sicko. We are breaking you down. Your magick is meaningless and your binding spells have no power here. This is our domain, not yours. We decide what stays and what goes. When you wake, no one will recognize the reckless Witch who once was.

My protest is blocked by my swollen tongue, and my pleas for heavenly help die in my throat. I am a heap of sizzling skin and medium-rare meat. I am consciousness caged in an ailing mortal mask. I am a bundle of scrambling cells fighting for their lives, and I am a defeated warrior whimpering for her mama on the battlefield of the last fight for freedom.

They are nibbling now, and I don’t mind. My senses betray me, and I’ve lost my vision. I am numb to all but the vague scent of my own blood, and I am drowning in the molten lava of memories held too dear and praises sung too loudly. They know what they’re doing, these daughters of Lucifer; they know exactly where I house my scaled-over identities and, bit by bit, they are melting me into a slow-moving river of silvery namelessness.

I forget who I am, and how I came to be here. I lose all sense of certainty, for they have slurped up every epiphany, every welcomed burst of insight, and every archetype born from the collective unconscious I used to house so neatly in my guts. I’ve been boiled down to the purest substance of my soul, and I’ve no choice but to trust these sharp-toothed masterminds know how to conjure me back to life in a truer shape and put me in a place where I belong. This is my feverish transmutation, my volcanic cocoon-crucible, my anguished healing spell, and my brutal birth-by-fire.
I am being forged in the flames of this fever. Don’t dare wake me until it’s done.

Danielle Dulsky

Danielle Dulsky is a long-time activist for wild woman spirituality and the divine feminine’s return. She is the author of Woman Most Wild (coming May 2017 from New World Library). A multi-media artist, yoga teacher and teacher trainer, and energy worker, Danielle is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless...


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