The house is quiet, save for the hum of my computer and the soft crackle of a candle on my altar. My husband is in the other room, likely settled into a book or a show, completely unaware that a mile-wide war is being waged just twenty feet away in the kitchen. On the counter sits a container of cookies.
To a “normal” person—the kind of person like my husband, who can eat one cookie and then literally forget the rest exist—those are just snacks. They are flour, butter, and sugar. But for me, they are a pulsing frequency. Even through the walls, I can feel their presence. It’s a magnetic pull that tugs at the back of my skull while I’m trying to focus on my work.
My inner monologue isn’t a stream of consciousness; it’s a high-stakes hostage negotiation that never ends.
To read the entire article, go to the Body of a Goddess blog: https://krasbold.substack.com