when everything caught fire
October was full.
Pumpkin swims. Cold water with bite, but joy threaded through it. London lunches that felt grounding instead of overwhelming. Witchy found-family parties where no one needed explanations.
Halloween crafts everywhere.
The graveyard in the garden.
The flowing potion pot.
Small rituals that made darkness feel playful instead of heavy.
There was more craft fair prep. Still building. Still making. Pens appeared. A literary theme emerged out of nowhere and quietly rewired Daydot forever. I didn’t see it coming. I just followed it.
October felt creative in a way that scared me a little. Like something important had clicked and I needed to keep up.
I did a one kilometre a day swim.
I swam to a buoy that definitely looked further away than it had any right to be.
It didn’t kill me.
That felt significant.
As the earth got darker, I craved warmth. Fires. Scrapbook time. Paper and glue and memories laid out slowly, deliberately. A different kind of heat.
October held intensity without collapse.
Depth without drowning.
Momentum without panic.
It felt like proof.
Not that I was fixed.
But that I was alive again, in colour, in motion, in choice.
And that mattered.
