Spare me those pitiful glances.

You can save yourselves the worried whispers behind my back.

'She is so hard', you whisper. 'She can't be happy.'

'She never smiles', say your eyes. 'That can't be right.'

'She's all in black', that are your thoughts. 'She mourns the life she has not had.'

I merely smile at this; how shallow to think that all happiness can be seen, that all smiles appear on the face. The deepest joy remains within. I carry my love beneath my skin.
What greater joy is there than to feel the herbs and plants between my hands, to smell their fumes, to see them mingle and become something special, something magical. I live my craft with all my senses. Can any being be more alive?

I wear only the black that I love, the colour of the night. Should we witches not love the night? Should we not honour how it embraces us?

Don't fear for me.
I am alive.

More than any of you could ever be.