Θαυματουργία – Ancient Greek – “Miracle-Worker”
It’s easy to say the time of magic, myth and monsters has long passed us by. I don’t blame the average man for having that opinion. Things have gotten stale.
Stagnation, uncertainty, and oppressive fear-mongering from corrupt lords within the ivory towers above; the serpents which feed us the stimuli to herd us to slaughter.
Merchants, charlatans, and those that crack their whip. Those that peddle their cures with the promise of peace of mind and soundness of body.
The street magician, whose magicks are as potent as the flaccid cock his wares promise to fix. His :VIRILITY: a mix of piss and nightshade for the cuckold husband who can no longer satisfy his wife.
The False Wizard. The corrupted Thaumaturge.
Many among us happily go along with this. They flock to the flashy signs and charismatic showmanship of the con-man in flamboyant clothing. They believe, they are comforted by so-called “Magic”
As cattle charmed by a woman’s kulning, many of us act the same; put into oblivious bliss in exchange for obedient submission.
But what of those of us that don’t buy the snake oil? What of those that refuse to drink from the well of tainted wisdom? When the curtain falls on the carnival show and we’re left to wonder:
What the fuck was that?
We who fall into this camp know magic exists. We live it, we work it, it’s a part of our worldview. It’s not regurgitated jargon from paid-off news networks and medical “professionals”. Thaumaturgy, the working of miracles, exists within the hearts, minds and greater consciousness of those that understand my words.
The Thaumaturge, the worker of miracles, is not a man in a top hat or a face on your TV set. It’s one who sees through it all. The one who sees illumination everywhere in his waking world, through the smoke and mirrors,
Magicks exist in abundance for those who seek them. We find them in art, in passion, in sex. The eroticism and beauty within body, mind, and spirit.
In romance, in violence, in exploration. In the path and the struggle. We live it all, then rejoice upon the summit.
All are components in this alchemical process; in the flames and blinding lights of passion, whether entwined in the warm comfort of a woman, or in the blood fury of combat with your fellow man.
A rite, if you will; rite of the erotic and the destructive, arcane ritual sealed in vaginal fluid and blood.
Deep meditations within yourself, on the concepts of life and love, of death and rebirth, of your psyche as a spinning wheel, and life’s energy the thread. Luminous fibres from all directions, twirling and twining together as embers fly.
A paradigm is born.
Limitless potential, weaving together of everything, and nothing.
This is magic. It’s exhilarating, it’s mundane, it’s divine.
Fan the flames during a drought and you may burn down half the village. Do nothing, and you may sit alone in the cold.
Rays of negativity penetrate our minds from all sides. The stagnant period the world is in right now only worsens this. The power to ward off these spells of destruction exists within us, however. We are the vessel for the magicks around us. They are our shield and our sword; our staff and crystal ball; our :STORM-CLEAVER: to cut through the madness.
Save your gold pieces, my friends. Turn your attention from the demon in a false halo and instead, direct it inward. Open your mind and body, allow the ebb and flow of the mystic to flow within you. Shape it, experience it, embody it.
Smile, rejoice, celebrate.
Experience, love, and be loved.
We are the wizards. We have curses to lift.
I, The Alchemist
I, The Vessel
I, The Cosmos.