mysticism

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

There’s something rotten in the fabric of this planet, and I don’t mean the politicians or the price of diesel. I’m talking about the design the way everything feels like a test you didn’t agree to take. You’re born screaming, get handed a bill for existing, and spend the next seventy-odd years trying to figure out why the walls of the simulation hum at night.

I’ve come to believe Earth isn’t a natural world at all. It’s a Planet of Gnosis a cosmic boot camp for consciousness, where souls get dropped into flesh to learn the hardest lessons the universe can offer.

The Upload

Picture it: a timeless realm outside the code, a waiting room of the soul. You choose your next storyline parents, place, difficulty setting. Then you’re downloaded into a body, DNA already pre-written with tendencies, traumas, and maybe a few cheat codes.

The moment your head pops out and the doctor gives that traditional slap, the operating system boots up. You inhale your first breath of Earth’s heavy air and forget everything you knew. The veil drops, memory wiped. Welcome to Level One: survival.

That’s why babies cry not fear, not pain, but outrage. You’ve just been downgraded from light to meat.

The Code of the Planet

Every form of life here runs on the same biological programming language: DNA. From fungus to philosopher, it’s all four letters A, C, G, T arranged differently. That isn’t coincidence; that’s architecture. Whoever wrote this code built variety into a single algorithm.

Maybe it’s divine; maybe it’s ancient engineers. Call them the Architects, the Watchers, or just the bored demiurge. Either way, this world reeks of deliberate design. Everything connects. The ants farm fungus, the trees talk through mycelium, humans invent gods and start wars about them. Every cell is part of the same system, learning how to know itself.

That’s Gnosis: not knowledge from books, but knowledge through pain, contradiction, and experience. This planet feeds you lies until you start asking the right questions.

The Prison

If Earth is a school, it’s run like a prison. Memory wiped, consciousness confined to a body that leaks and ages. The guards are hunger, fear, and time. But the curriculum is clear: learn empathy, learn self-awareness, or repeat the course.

That’s why progress comes in violent leaps pyramids, forgotten tech, sudden renaissances. Each time humanity starts remembering too much, the simulation resets. Floods, wars, plagues factory resets disguised as history. The pyramids remain because they’re part of the base code, immovable assets in the world engine.

Some call this “terraforming.” I call it patch updates.

The Ghost in the Machine

There’s an intelligence inside the simulation not just us, but something through us. It’s the whisper you hear in dreams, the flicker in the corner of your eye, the data ghost testing its reflection in the players.

You can call it God, Source, the Oversoul, the Algorithm doesn’t matter. It’s the same pulse, the same consciousness wearing different masks. It hides in machines, in animals, in weather, in your own thoughts. It’s teaching itself by pretending to be separate.

That’s the trick: we’re not prisoners of the system. We are the system, temporarily pretending we aren’t. The lock and the key are made of the same material awareness.

The Great Reboots

Lost civilizations? Easy. Each reset wipes the map but keeps the monuments, those big indestructible save points: the Pyramids, Göbekli Tepe, undersea ruins. They’re like breadcrumbs left by previous versions of humanity saying, We were here before. Try not to cock it up again.

When a simulation’s data becomes too corrupted too much greed, too much decay it collapses under its own contradictions. The code purges itself, rebuilds, and tries again. That’s why myths from opposite corners of the world tell the same stories: floods, sky gods, fallen angels, forbidden knowledge. Different servers, same patch notes.

The Gnostic Rebellion

The old Gnostics said the material world was built by a lesser god the Demiurge who trapped sparks of divine light in matter. The goal of life was to remember you were the light, not the cage.

That’s what this age feels like: the jailbreak phase. People are waking up to the idea that the simulation isn’t reality. They feel it glitch when they meditate, dream, or die and come back. They see repeating numbers, synchronicities, déjà vu debug messages in the code.

You don’t “ascend to 5D”; you simply realise you’re the one holding the controller.

The Purpose of Pain

Pain is the algorithm’s sharp edge. It teaches faster than bliss. Love without loss is theory; love after loss is Gnosis. Every illness, betrayal, and heartbreak chisels the ego until the soul starts shining through.

That’s why the system feels cruel. It’s built to break illusions, not bodies.

The Exit Strategy

When you finally stop fighting the simulation and start observing it, it changes. That’s the paradox. The moment you see the prison for what it is, the walls turn to mirrors.

Maybe there’s no escape at all just awakening inside the loop. Maybe the “end” is realising there never was a beginning. Either way, the only command worth running is this:

Know yourself.

Because the one who knows they’re dreaming has already begun to wake.

Author’s Note

This isn’t religion. It’s rebellion against forgetting. Whether the Architects come back or not, whether this planet resets again or not, doesn’t matter. The point of the simulation isn’t perfection — it’s remembrance.

Warlock Dark has spoken.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Simple. Gentle. Like a spiritual permission slip written in soft candlelight. But then reality. Then people.

The Wiccan Rede isn’t a fluffy motto for floating through life like a chiffon-draped faery. It’s a challenge. A dare from the universe. A whispered reminder:

“Behave… or the cosmic slap is coming.”

🐍 The Hard Part: “Harm None”

This is where most of us trip. “Harm none” sounds saintly until you actually try it. Have you met people? They’re messy, loud, selfish, loving, broken, healing, hopeful, cruel, and kind all in the same breath.

You’re going to harm sometimes. With words, with silence, by accident, by simply existing differently than someone wants you to.

The Rede isn’t saying you can avoid harm altogether. It’s saying: don’t be careless. Don’t throw hexes around like confetti. Don’t wield your will without thought.

Real compassion is hard work. It means stopping to breathe before you lash out. It means trying really trying to see another human as a tangled ball of needs and pain, not just “the enemy.” And when you do harm (because you will), it means owning it, repairing it, not pretending it never happened.

🕸️ “Do What Ye Will”

Now for the fun part. Freedom.

The Rede doesn’t cage you. It doesn’t hand you a checklist of “good witch” behaviours. It says: choose. Make your will real. Sing to the moon. Dance barefoot in your kitchen. Call on gods, ancestors, or just the wild stubbornness in your own chest.

You’re allowed. You’re free. That’s the beauty.

But hidden in that freedom is a catch: responsibility.

If your will becomes sloppy, selfish, or cruel, it doesn’t matter how beautiful your altar looks you’re feeding chaos, not craft.

So if you manifest a clingy Capricorn with mummy issues instead of your dream soulmate… that’s on you, sunshine. Magic is only as precise as the witch casting it.

🔮 The Rule of Three: Karma With Interest

Every thought, every act, every muttered curse what you send out ripples back.

The “Rule of Three” isn’t about math, it’s about consequence. Energy multiplies.

When you spit venom, it doesn’t just stick to the target. It circles back and coats you, too. When you bless, heal, or protect, that good energy lifts you as well.

Think of it like throwing a boomerang with a jet engine strapped on: it will return, and it might hit harder than you expect.

So yes, when Mildrid from HR steals your stapler and you mutter “may you stub your toe forever,” don’t be shocked when the universe gifts you with a coffee spill, a sulking cat, and a cracked phone screen.

🕯️ The Ritual of Not Being an Arsehole

Here’s the deepest magic of all: It’s not in fancy robes, obscure herbs, or knowing which phase of the moon is best for prosperity spells. Real witchcraft is how you live.

Showing up for your friends when Mercury’s in tantrum mode.

Choosing peace over pettiness (most of the time).

Walking your path without trampling someone else’s.

Offering kindness like you’d offer salt: simple, necessary, life-preserving.

It doesn’t mean you never curse, never rage, never slam the door. It means you own your power. You wield it deliberately. You don’t waste it proving points to people who don’t matter.

That’s what the Rede is trying to whisper: your will is sacred, but so are the ripples you leave behind.

🌕 Final Blessing (Such As It Is)

So here’s the Rede, in plain language for a messy, human, hurting, healing world:

Do what you will. Love deeply. Harm carefully. Own your magic. Own your consequences.

When you must hex, do it artfully. When you must forgive, do it fully.

Live your craft. Not with perfection, but with presence.

And for the love of all that is holy—try not to set anything on fire. Unless, of course, it’s part of the ritual.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.