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✦ As Above, So Below – The Reflection of All Things ✦

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(The Cosmic Joke, and Why You're the Punchline)

They say as above, so below; as below, so above — and not just in cute Etsy calligraphy on a witchy girl’s living room wall. It’s etched into the Emerald Tablet, muttered in Crowley’s shadow-drenched rituals, whispered between lovers and lunatics who’ve stared too long into the abyss and seen their own reflection blinking back.

I felt it long before I read it. Before I fell down the esoteric rabbit hole, before I lit candles at 3am and called it “healing,” before I started seeing patterns in burnt toast and planetary retrogrades. It’s a knowing in the bones. That what spirals above — in realms of stars, gods, and forgotten names — is not separate, but echoed right here, in the cracked mirror of your everyday catastrophe.

Ritual in the Ruins This isn’t New Age fluff. This is blood-and-bone spirituality. Crowley didn’t mean for you to find peace — he meant for you to tear yourself apart, find the divine in the ruin, and build your True Will from the ashes. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law — but first, you have to find out what the hell your Will actually is. And spoiler: it's probably not selling yoga leggings on Instagram.

The sacred isn’t hiding in some fifth-dimensional pyramid. It’s here. In the dishes you didn’t wash. In the existential nausea at 4:47am. In your spiralling thoughts as you stare at the ceiling, realising you are, in fact, still very much human. As Crowley might grunt from the corner of the séance room: “Yes, darling, and it’s all part of the plan.”

Alchemy of the Everyday (Or: God Hides in the Cupboard) Everything you touch is part of the ritual. You are the High Priestess and the hungover initiate all at once. Your life is the altar. The teabag is the sacrament. The argument with your mum? Sacred initiation. Your existential crisis? Congratulations, you're halfway through the first veil. And every unspoken prayer you whisper while stuck in traffic – the gods hear it. Even if they're laughing.

There’s no separation. No "mundane" thing. No “real life” to return to after you’re done meditating under a blood moon. This is the Work. The gnosis. The initiation rite hidden in the laundry pile.

As above – celestial spheres move in perfect harmony. So below – you stub your toe on the bin. And yet… somehow, it’s the same bloody dance.

Be the Bridge. Burn if You Must. This is where it gets beautifully bleak: You are the bridge between heaven and hell. You are the axis mundi. You are the magus, the meat puppet, the divine joke made flesh. Whether you like it or not.

So honour both realms. Tend to your wounds as sacred texts. Light the damn candle, even if you’re on your last match. Let your longing be a spell, your rage a sigil, your joy an offering.

In this temple of a body, in this crumbling world, I bow to what is above by walking barefoot through the grit of what is below. I don't escape the filth – I find the stars inside it. That’s the real sorcery. That’s the real madness.

         “The views in this post are based on my personal      
            experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

          “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                     By storm and silence, I survive.”

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                       n🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌