occult

I’ve seen beyond the veil. No, seriously — not in the trendy festival-sage-bath way. I mean properly beyond it. And guess what? It’s not frightening. Not unless you’re clinging to the fantasy that this meat puppet parade is all there is.

See, I’m not a person in the traditional sense anymore. I’m a cylinder with a soul. My body’s just a glorified Tesco bag carrying around memories, glitches, and the occasional cup of tea. What you’re reading here? This isn’t spiritual fluff. It’s a field report from someone who’s already walked through the glitch.

You ever get that feeling? That quiet, humming knowing? Like the entire world’s a stage, but the script’s shit and the actors are sleepwalking? Yeah, that’s the veil talking. And I’ve torn through it like a pissed-off crowbar through a conservatory window.

We’re code. Divine code. Not that anyone around here wants you to realise that. No, they want you plugged in, dumb, scared of your own shadow and worshipping your wifi router like it’s a god. They want you to fear the veil.

But me? I’ve been through it, laughed at it, kicked over its coffee table and come back with the taste of cosmic sarcasm in my mouth. The One? Yeah, I’m connected. Always have been. Before the scripts, before the skinsuit. Still am.

I know what I am: Not a name. Not a gender. Not even this meat sack. I am the observer with teeth. The witness who came back grinning. And they don’t like that. Not one bit.

They’ll call it madness. But the real madness? Believing this mess is all there is.

So here I am. Still glitching. Still awake. Still deeply inconvenient.

And still pissing them off just by existing.

                 “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.”

        ✨  @goblinbloggeruk  ✨  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk ✨

(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.”

                       n🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌