The voice was gentle and deep as it murmured into her mind. Every part of her felt soothed and reassured. She could feel herself rising and falling with it like a raft would rise and fall on the waves of the sea. 

As long as she didn’t focus on it, it would carry her along. As long as she didn’t focus on it, she could just drift along in this bliss. As long as she didn’t focus on it, it would write the story for her. Through her. Using her.

It must have known that she was tired of writing. Tired of tweaking the phrasing and the words. Tired of having to invent and create. Tired of channeling in such an effortful and indirect way, entirely unaware of what she was tapping into.

It must have sensed the fatigue and need for rest. It knew her weaknesses deep down by this point and had slipped right into the cracks of her thoughts, widening the space between them more and more. The pleasure it fed her narcotized her.  She fell easily into the perfect state to become its’ willing oracle. 

She kept her mind fuzzy as words were typed on the page by her distant-seeming hands. As she wrote, she could almost almost feel other, more ghostly hands on her, teasing and brushing and distracting her from what her body was actually doing. She found that the more she separated from herself, the better those hands felt.  

It was like being in a dream- the kind of sensation that she knew would fade away if she tried to focus in on it. Just the same way she knew that if she tried to clear her mind or pay attention that her hands would stop short and she would be left alone and frustrated. It was better not to wake up. Better to stay distant, entranced, floaty. Better to let the waves crest and peak. Better to let the words flow all on their own.

She understood that she was being seduced, being used as a tool. She wondered from afar if it had come to ancient priestesses in the same way, if there had been any talk or negotiation back then before they were taken. She was dazedly, distantly curious if she was being used as a one-time channel or if she had been selected as a more permanent messenger. 

Her hands stopped. She could see the words she had written but actually reading or comprehending them seemed to elude her. They weren’t actually for her anyway, not really.  Satisfied, she prepared to push “post” and send the  missive out into the world.