After lolling around all day achieving very little, I find myself visualising… feeling compelled to make a pentagram of salt in a circle on the timber floor.

Even though I have yet to perform the act (in this life at least), it feels familiar, like I have done it a thousand times before.

Reflecting sincerely, I admit I want power; power to bend circumstance to my will, but there is also a part of me that knows better.

I – We – must remember, life is perfect. the cycles, the rhythm, the patterns that form and fall away… and rather than pushing against what is, the true power is in coming into right relationship with it.

The inspiration doesn’t come when I’m striving. It comes after a whole day of nothing… when the surface mind finally stops its busy justification, and the body reaches for something deeper. Floor. Salt. Geometry. Rising up—something underneath, birthing itself into the space.

Yet, I don’t perform it. Instead, I sit with the seeing.

Because the pentagram drawn is an effort to mold what is.

But the pentagram felt and not drawn… held in the body as charge without discharge… that’s the tension itself as the practice.

I want power. Not the polished version of that. Not the healer framing. Just the want. Raw and simple.

At 3:33 on a day where little was achieved, I notice that writing the sentence is itself the threshold I dwell upon.

The part of me that knows better isn’t retreat. I’m not pulling back from the wanting. I’m holding it inside a wider knowing. The wanting stays. Not corrected, just contained.

This is exactly what the circle around the pentagram is for.

The wanting is the pentagram.

The knowing is the circle.

And I… the one writing at 3:33…

am the salt.