That’s In Walked Love, backwards. There’s a jazz tune by that name. Our big band at Uni played it.
TWO of CUPS (inverted). Love. Harmony of male and female in the largest sense and all that goes with it, pleasure, warmth, etc. Inverted, it could mean folly, dissipation or waste.
Or it could mean the loss of love. Allen asked for the ring back. I can understand why. I haven’t worn it since my epiphany … um, episode. I still love him, I think, but I can’t reconcile what I’ve done … sleeping with Max, then allowing myself to be possessed.
The worst part of it all is blabbing … blogging all about it. That alienated Allen, and was generally unforgivable. I don’t blame him. Maybe it is time to pull the plug. I know you wank … want to heal … hear all about my infatuation with Marcel and my time as the High Priestess of the coterie. Maybe you want me to give in to my bisexual fantasies and shake up … shack up with Evie or go back to London and Christa. She’s too young for me, and I wouldn’t want the responsibility of healing … helping to rear her daughter.
Frankly, what happens in the coterie is probably secret, and I need to heal … hence the reason I keep typing that word when I mean to type something else. Yes, my soul needs time to heal, and adding my verbal diarrhoea to the Internet probably isn’t helping matters.
So that means I’m going to cool it for a while. I’ll pop back when I feel strong enough. Eirica is almost finished. She’s won her man (as much as she wanted to), and all that is left is a short epilogue, which I’ll post in a few days. I don’t know what I’ll do with that blog afterwards. Maybe start a new story … a story of healing … a story of becoming Scottish … a magical story of ghosts, castles … of healing. Who knows where I’ll take it. Anyway …
The bite-marks still hurt.