tonight i did magic. 

i came back from a long walk in the setting sun thinking of what to leave behind, of death. i tore a third of a page from the notebook i use to jot things down and tore it into thirds. in the dark with a sharpie i wrote on them my regret, my bitterness, my fear of death. i grabbed a cup from the kitchen and the lighter from my altar, that sits in the south and speaks for fire, and i went outside to the crossroads in front of my house. one by one i burned the pieces of paper. i dug a hole in the hard dry clay in the summer twilight heat with my fingers and a piece of bark and buried the ashes. when i had covered them with dirt i spit on the pile, a long rope of drool that sank into the earth. 

my regret went up easily; my bitterness went out and had to be lit again and almost burned my fingers; my fear of death went smooth and lingered in ember. 

though i am sweaty i feel clean; though i was hot i felt a cool breeze. though i am tired i feel new life.