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“Kali in Cardiff: The Orange Throne”

Cardiff always feels different at night.

The air is cooler, sharper, like it knows the city is holding its breath between heartbeats. I slipped through those quiet streets with a strange sense of purpose, even though I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going — only that I needed a place where I could think without pretending.

I ended up in that little studio, the one lit only by a single warm lamp.

The light was soft, glowing amber, stretching over everything like a quiet embrace.

And there it was in the middle of the room:

the chair —

the one people liked to joke about,

the one I instantly nicknamed the orange throne.

It wasn’t regal or grand.

It was worn in places, smooth in others,

bright and bold in a way that felt too honest for most rooms.

But somehow… I felt drawn to it.

I sat down slowly, letting the fabric hug the lines of my body,

my hands resting on the armrests,

my breath settling into something calmer, steadier.

I didn’t come here to perform.

I didn’t come here to be looked at.

I came here to unravel.

The orange light wrapped around my legs, my arms, my thoughts,

turning everything soft at the edges.

It made me feel grounded —

like this chair could hold the parts of me I struggled to hold on my own.

I leaned back, exhaling the truth I’d been carrying in my chest all day:

I’m tired of being strong in all the wrong ways.

Sitting there, I allowed myself to feel the weight of things —

the pressure, the expectation,

the wild spark inside me that I kept trying to cage

because I was too afraid of what would happen if I let it burn freely.

My fingers curled around the edge of the seat,

tracing its texture,

feeling the warmth seep into my skin.

And in that tiny Cardiff room,

sitting on that ridiculous orange throne,

I felt something shift.

Something small.

But real.

A reminder that I’m allowed to take up space.

That I’m allowed to breathe.

That I’m allowed to want things —

even if I’m not ready to name them out loud yet.

When I finally stood, the imprint of the moment stayed with me,

a quiet echo against my skin.

Kali in Cardiff.

On her orange throne.

Learning, slowly, to claim her own fire.