Journal by Olga Nunes

The Company of Spiders

I was going to write something, somewhere, on some folded napkin or stray envelope just now. Something about how sometimes I feel that writing is the only power I have.

I was about to fold my laptop shut, my laptop with my burgeoning novel, scribble this sentiment on some stray page. And I bent over across the bed, hand tugging at the laptop. And out scurries a small brown spider, thimble-sized.

Whenever I doubt myself, or my magic, spiders will appear in my notebooks, on my pillow, near my stories. Once, very magically, a spider built a web for the night on my witchy basket, of herbs and cards and things.

I felt isolated, most of the day, and a little sad, not up for company. One of the days where fear becomes stronger than any other weapon I have. And the spiders come to remind, and friends from over the sea come to remind me. And I sleep with a small dream tucked beneath the fertile soil of my pillow, that I hope will become a very big sort of dream, one day.