Edging on the Edge of Everything
Longing, lineage, and the spell of becoming
This morning, I read a sentence about Sicily, that felt like it could just as easily be describing me.
“Sicily is probably less unhappy than she has been for many centuries; but though no longer lost she still seems lonely, seeking always an identity which she can never entirely find.”
~ Sicily: A Short History from the Ancient Greeks to Cosa Nostra - John Julius Norwich
I paused. Highlighted it. Reread it. Shared it to my stories. And immediately thought of a post I wrote while I was there last year.
She is me
And I her
I feel her seeping through me
Land of my blood and bones
Lost girl returns home
Siren, witch, fae
Ancient, cellular memories activating
The line in the book reminded me of this eternal seeking. This sense of exile, even in places that feel like home. This deep loneliness that exists not because I’ve never tasted belonging, but because I have. And I know what’s possible.
I’ve had glimpses. Danced in circles of connection. Felt wildly free and liberated, spinning under moonlight in the arms of kindreds and creatures.
But right now? I’m isolated from all of it. Rooted in a place that doesn’t feel like mine.
Yearning for a land that does—Sicily.
And in the meantime, I just want to be in Perth, connected to my family and culture. Finding community in other artists, wanderers, and creatives. Making love and merging souls, building real and deep relationships with people who see the world through a similar lens. Not isolated in the desert.
Every time I’ve touched Sicilian soil, I’ve felt the pull of something older than memory.
A cellular recognition. A heartbeat beneath my feet. Something that knows me, before my name, before this body, before this life.
And I always say it when I’m there—Sicily is me.
It’s not just where my Nonna came from.
It’s in my blood and bones.
The wild, volcanic terrain.
The rawness. The sweat. The fire. The sensuality.
The jagged edges and crystal clear depths.
The resistance and the beauty.
She’s not just a place. She’s a mirror.
And it breaks my heart to know I’m not going back this year.
After years of wandering the world with my laptop and my dreams, I’ve never felt this trapped.
It’s not just physical. It’s psychic. Emotional. Spiritual.
Like I’m in the Void. Like my wings have been clipped. Like I’m sitting in the tension of becoming, but not quite there yet. Not quite sure what’s next.
I feel like I’m edging with my vision right now.
Sitting in that sweet, maddening tension. The place where you’re so close to climax,
but you pull back because the build-up feels so good. You want to stay in the waves,
keep riding the ache, prolong the ecstasy of almost-arriving.
It’s delicious. But also frustrating as hell.
Because you want the orgasm. You want the full-body YES. The moment when everything clicks and bursts open.
But there’s this fine line… where the longing itself becomes the addiction.
That’s where I’m at. Hovering on the edge of the thing I most desire, and yet, resisting the release.
And I wonder if it’s because I’ve gotten so good at the in-between.
At the chaos. At the ache.
For so long I believed my story wasn’t compelling enough. I didn’t have the strong “Hero’s Journey” to talk about. Not enough suffering, not enough arc.
So I created the trials, made sure I earned the transformation.
And now? It seems, I don’t know how to let it be easy. How to receive love, success, joy… without struggle.
There’s a part of me that’s scared to arrive. That wants to stay in the tension, because once you climax, it’s over.
The mystery collapses. The spell breaks.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Or maybe that’s just my own fear of deepening. Because beyond the orgasm, there’s usually so much bliss. More room for exploration. For reaching new limits, especially the more you get to know someone.
As much as I say I want out of this cycle, as much as I ache for the destination I see in my dreams, there’s still a part of me that clings to the ache, that plays the victim just a little longer, because it’s familiar.
Because it’s easier to ask for pity than to receive pure, unconditional love.
But I see her now. And I love her. And I’m gently, powerfully, letting her go.
Cos there’s another part of me. The one who is ready for beauty. For ease. For grace.
I did a burning ritual this morning. Sat with my altar. Wrote the words of release and set them on fire.
As I sat in this space, I thought about Sicily again. About her history of conquest, of colonisation, of identity theft. How she’s been claimed and renamed by empire after empire.
And yet—she persists. She feels deeply. She remembers. She burns with life.
It made me reflect on the nature of decolonisation. Not just as a political act, but as a spiritual one.
Because the truth is: we’ve all been colonised.
Not just land. Not just bodies.
But stories. Beliefs. Ways of being. By religions, governments, systems, patriarchy, capitalism.
And yes, some of us have more privilege than others, but none of us escape untouched. We’re all descendants of both colonisers and the colonised.
We all carry paradox. We all carry pain.
And fighting over who has more suffering only perpetuates the systems that want us divided.
My liberation is yours. And yours is mine.
It’s time to stop playing small out of guilt or shame or fear. It’s time to stop dimming our light to appease the shadows of our ancestors.
We are here. We are alive. And we deserve to live well.
So here’s what I’m reclaiming:
My right to live a beautiful, abundant, meaningful life.
My right to embody my magic without apology.
My right to be seen in my power, even if it triggers others.
My right to belong. Not because I’ve earned it, but because I am it.
I am a Witch.
A Weaver.
A Magic Maker.
A Storyteller.
A Dreamer.
A Curator of Myth and Memory.
And I will no longer let the online noise, the algorithmic trance, or the whispers of old shame tell me who I am.
I am not confused.
I am not lost.
I am not broken.
I am simply becoming.
Sicily will always be there.
She lives in my bones.
And I’ll return when the time is right.
But for now, I take her with me.
Her heat. Her grit. Her wisdom. Her wild.
This longing isn’t just a wound.
It’s a compass.
And I trust where it’s leading me.
Even here.
Even now.
In the dark.
In the unknown.
In the sacred, beautiful edge of what’s next.
Let me bleed.
Let me burn.
Let me begin again.
