i'm not sure how these things sometimes happen and i find myself inside my own stories. i've heard of writers doing this, songwriters, novelists and journalists and it would be stupid for me to dismiss this as coincidence chance or luck. burroughs explored this a lot in many essays he wrote and interviews he gave, burroughs was the most magickally experienced writer of them all. he not only understood the process but e used it as a meta program.
me, i'm driving back from work at an ungodly hour after a 16 hour shift and very little sleep, my brain is probably a bit delirious and misfiring, it's in that between zone, the one where strange things happen. 
i get a text from a girl i met once, she wants me to pop in for tea and i'm almost driving past her road, a place i have never visited before. a girl i hardly know but she seems keen on seeing me. it's not like i'm attracted to her, or in anyway in need of her friendship, she is almost a stranger but in my strange dimwitted zombie like narcosis i turn into her road and slow down looking for her house, number 7b. 
the street is so dark i have to park and then walk along looking at the letter boxes for the numbers, but they are quite random and 1 does not follow 2 or 3 but 9 so i have to walk quite a distance until i discover the strange old house at 7b. it's falling apart, sofas scatter the front lawn, there's a tv on and it casts a strange light show through the window. for some reason it feels as though i am underwater as the light shimmers and distorts. the garden is a mess, overgrown and random, it screams don't come in and i listen and text a message as the house i'm looking at is 7a.
i request she come out to the front and meet me. she does.
she's dressed in black, somewhat skinny and tall and much narrower features than i recall. she lives around the back of this house and as i walk behind her following the overgrown path we pass strange abandoned things, stuffed toys, empty cages, broken furniture, boxes and what looked like an assortment of junk.
we turn a corner and walk through a tiny doorway, she whispers, 'its a bit of a mess,' as i step through.
okay, mess is not quite the word i would use. i am in the realm of serious hoarding, although here in this zone there is no order, no method to the madness. it is basically a derelict tiny living area crammed with...things.
by things i mean, household things but just everywhere, on the floor, piled up to the ceiling, in the sink, on a sofa, there is no space left. i find a small kitchen chair and she clears it so as i can utilise it.
she makes me a tea from a micro kitchen area that looks as if a hurricane has gone through every atom of it, spilling out cutlery, mugs, cds, books, shoes, bits of string, it's everywhere, boxes falling apart overspilling with clothes, bottles, containers, hairbrushes, it's really not my place to comment or say anything but it's impossible not to. 
'wow, this is amazing, it's so chaotic, i like a little bit of chaos but this is so pure.'
'yeah, i have to get out of here soon, move somewhere else, maybe newcastle or the south coast.'
i make some small talk about property prices, she's renting this place but it amazes me anyone would charge her for it. she should be getting paid by her greedy landlords to live in it.
as she talks i think, you are not going to move anywhere, you are trapped inside your own mind. this is just a projection of where you are at.
her conversation takes her all over the place, it don't stop, it's relentless, words tumble out from her tiny mouth filling the tiny vacuum that's left in her living area. i peek into a bedroom and see it's no different. there is no space in this home, just her junk. 
of course for her it is not junk, but for me, it belongs upon a pyre. she's talking non stop now, voice change, i detect three different sources, one the girl i met, she's okay, a reasonable sort of woman that i had a conversation with, i can't recall how she got my phone number but she did. this one is intelligent and sort of interesting, open minded and has great taste in music. but there's this other voice, the one that answers her own questions, the one that self degrades her, undermines her and takes her out every chance it gets. it's also very bitter, angry, hopeless and disillusioned. 
the other is a child. seeking help and this is the one i suspect invited me.
'are you a witch?' i ask out of the blue.
she says no but then adds, 'i am a woman, aren't all women?'
i smile, that's a good answer.
she offers me some tea, it's surprisingly good. then she has a moment of honesty, and confesses her unhappiness and self loathing. she's obviously very lonely and alienated.
i don't know what i can say, i'm uncertain why i am here, my eyes won't stay open, my head is just focused upon going home, sleeping.
i sip my tea and offer some advice, i talk a little about the girl in western australia who got badly burnt and somehow manages to life an amazing life. positive and overcoming overwhelming odds at taking control over something which would have defeated me. i tell her about some of the clients i worked with whom managed to wake up smiling even though they were in a wheelchair, i talk to her about finding that spirit inside yourself and just taking each moment as it comes, meeting adversity in small steps and lessening expectations when it comes to others.
i don't really know what i am saying, words are drifting out from my mouth as i think my way out from this crazy situation, she puts on nick cave and we listen to 'the boatmans call.'
people just aint no good.
i get this feeling she wants me to stay the night but there is no way i could stay another second. so i make some excuse and leave arriving home two hours later than i should have. two hours of my life in a strange woman's chaotic mind, like some awful enchantment with good tea and music, when all i want to do is be in my own bed warm and dreaming about waves.
witches sometimes get trapped in their own spells, fucking with the cosmos, things backfire, its a powerful energy to play with and you really need to know what your doing, not just intellectually but by being spiritually sound. the same thing for magickians and writers, as delmore shwartz wrote, in dreams begin responsibilities.