Every Halloween, I reached for the same thing: A black lace dress, long deep purple cloak with a hood, pointed hat and a cane with bells and knives.
Being a witch fits; it is like a dark version of myself just beneath the surface. The crisp October air calls to me, as if the season itself knows where I belong.
I love being a witch for Halloween because witches are powerful. They don’t ask permission. They are the magic.
As my dress sweeps along, I become mysterious, wild, a knower of things, ancient things, secret things. I can whisper a spell into the night and confidently actually make something happen.
I am taller, cackle just for fun, my voice drops low. I drink and imaginary potion by candlelight, feeling the enchantment that Halloween brings.
The fear of witches is understandable. Witches are wild, wise, free, dance in the moonlight, speak to the wind, trust their own intuition. Not everyone can handle such magic, it’s too strong.
Halloween reminds me of the magic within me, the wildness I carry all year long.
Georgia
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