spirituality

⚠️ 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.

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction this may be a confusing read. no AI written content

Well, good afternoon, good evening, good morning, wherever you are. Hello,fellow Humanoids , I trust that you as well as can be expected on this rather cold and very chilly start to the week. I sit here in my chair talking into this dictate to speech program and trying not to laugh as it really is very strange on punctuation etc. Still over the weekend I managed to really cause myself a really big bad severe brain fog. Oh my god I over did it and then some. But I managed to get a lot done. That's the most important thing in this case actually.

I managed finally to get most of the things sorted out for my podcast. and also I am going to be talking not just about multiple sclerosis but chronic illness and also the effects as well on mental health. And also we'll be talking about things to do with the paranormal and other realms and things that seem to just sort of creep in. I really don't know why, but it's generally about multiple sclerosis I think, and things that go bump in the night maybe. Yes, so I have got a lot of my own produced music which well, I got onto the AI and I put in what I wanted and well, I have music. So I have well over an excess now of a 100 tunes. And there we go. Plus I have guests. And I will be doing these podcasts and putting them up on Spotify. So yes, we're looking forward to this indeed. So to my mind was worth the suffering actually getting stuff done...

So my weekend was also slightly fraught as well as the good colonel came to visit... he does not like my tin foil hat and my views lol.. I thought he was going to explode... I was seriously pissed off and my attitude did not get any better when he started pretending to listen to me and ignore me.. I thought fuck this and went slightly well pissed off 6 ft 4 dude in a power chair mad... he soon went off into the outside for a vape lol... so it was I had to calm down as I basically slightly lost it...but there we go.. when we are not world wise and blinkered and you pat me on the head and treat me like an idiot that's what you get .... So I will always laff inside and wonder seems he treats me like a fucking idiot lol I cannot get over it the way he is lol

It's a very crazy thing is, before I was diagnosed with MS, he used to treat me like a normal person, a bit of a role model. But yes, things do change, don't they? Over the years, people seem to think just because you're in a wheelchair, I am disabled, that I am a fucking idiot and I'm sick of it. And yes, I'm speaking out. So if people start saying shit to me, I'm giving it back because I'm bloody well fed up with being treated like an idiot. fed up with being patted on the head like a good boy. No, I am totally fed up with it, and I would imagine there are quite a lot of other people just like me who are as well, all this being talked down to. You know, they must think we are stupid, I have quite a good education lol, left school at 15.., and I went to university at the age of 40 and I've got a few bits of paper as well, and I was self-employed in computers. Yeah, the MS screwed my career up there enough, but guess what? Carried on till my final day of retirement, even though I was struggling every day. Oh yes, chronic illness really does fuck your life up completely, but sometimes good things can come out of it , and it did for me in certain respects. But others, it doesn't. But that's the way the dice roll in life, I'm afraid.

Oh yes, I'm genuinely excited and looking forward to the podcast and yes it will be soon hopefully. I've got the music, I've got the guests and I've just got to get the rest of my resources and everything together and then it's the red light and off we go. I've got some jingles to make and stuff like that and hey ho you never know it might be enjoyed by one or two people but there we go it's going to be a non-live podcast basically. I was thinking about a live podcast but I decided against the idea as getting numbers for a live podcast would be quite a hard thing to do, you have to be very well established indeed to do anything live in these days. thanks to everybody who is and has been helping me over the past year get to where I am at the moment. So a big shout out to Albertine and all of my family and my extended family. for the encouragement and helping me on my path.

So as I sit here on Tuesday morning looking at what is on the paper in front of me, I'm smiling slightly. knowing that in a few weeks everything will go live and my first episode on the podcast will be on Spotify and I'm sure that I will find other places to play my podcast as well as there is also Sound Cloud and other places. So let's hope we can get some really good attractions and the biggest when we actually do the podcast and hopefully it will be a every two weekly podcast and maybe it might end up being a weekly one depending on how it goes and how I am because as you know stress is something with MS that isn't pleasant. So yeah I've got plenty of jingles and stuff when I hit those bad walls of brain fog How I'm going to need those.

So when I actually start the podcasts, if anybody out there wants to be a guest, all they have to do is just drop me an email and we will make it happen as long as it's to do with what we are actually talking about which will be illness and also things to do with the paranormal. I know people might think that is like strange, but I do believe there is a crossover. I believe people with chronic illness can have extra senses and can perceive more than others. And also people who are disabled, have many great psychic abilities, I have often found many don't want to talk about them because they think that by telling me or telling others of their weird experiences it will make them look stupid and silly. But let me reassure you by talking about it, it really does help and seriously it has helped me. So yes, because we are all the same and unfortunately when you're disabled and like me my illness causes my brain to be slightly fried and it causes me to be completely different to most people.

The most painful thing is, multiple sclerosis has changed me beyond anything that I used to be. People would not recognize me, they would not even really know me. Yes, that's how much I've changed. It's completely changed me, my life and everything about me. In some respects, that is a very good thing. It pushed me and pushed me. Because of the multiple sclerosis, I went to university. Because of the multiple sclerosis, I started up my own computer business. Because of the ms I pushed myself to the very limits of my existence. So yes, I have been through the ringer, as they say, and it has been pleasant in parts and other parts, it has been a living hell.

I tell it like it is. I speak straight. I do not hold back. People find that a bit of putting when you tell the truth and you tell people straight, no mucking around. that whole university thing started when I was 40 and I'm now what 67 So yeah, things really did change for me. I was diagnosed with MS but unfortunately the diagnosis took quite a long time as in some of my other previous blog posts explained what has happened. of course my first major MS attack was in 1986 but there we go that was 1986 and nothing was really done about that they just put it down to nothing in particular. I think that they wanted me to be a walking wreck who couldn't do bugger all because there we go. In 2003 I had a lumber puncture and I had an MRI and they said we are terribly sorry but you have MS. What I found really silly was I had all the symptoms of MS way back in the early 1970s. So there we go. It took them from 1970 odd to the year 2000 to diagnose me with MS.Slowly getting progressively worse.

Yes, I have memories of when I was 14, 15, 16, and I would get severe pins and needles, my body parts would go numb for days on end. I was suffering with severe neuralgia, weird nerve pains all over my body. So there was the memory as well. Even back then, I could do something one day, then a few months later, going to do it again, I just couldn't do it because I couldn't remember. And then trying to remember, it really hurt my head, trying to remember. also had the MS belt or the tightness around my chest which was awful. It was the most terrible thing and nobody would tell me what the problem was. So yeah, I really am annoyed at my treatment back in the 70s and 80s. It really was terrible. They just, well, didn't get it...

So the dictation program totally crashed my machine and I lost everything new on the txt pad duh . Oh the joys. Still I'm going to end it here. It was quite a mega post actually and hopefully well I'm not going to remember what I put because I've completely forgotten. You know what it's like.

wishing everybody peace healing, love and light, no matter who, what or where you are. Even if you are wearing your tin foil hat in a flying saucer, flying around the flat earth below the firmament dome lol. Hello, hello.

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.

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction this may be a confusing read. Some AI written content

Well, good morning, fellow humanoids. Yes. It is a warm day, and it is slightly sunny outside. Yes, I actually got on the three wheeled trolley of death this morning, and I went to the post office. My word, it was chaos at a sedate eight miles an hour on the roads of the southwest, causing mayhem. Everybody was smiling this morning. Everybody was chatting and happy. Oh, the joys and joys of a wondrous ostara. Indeed.

Spring has arrived, and with it comes Ostara a time of renewal, balance, and growth. But what does that really look like when you’re living with chronic illness, navigating Linux, and experimenting with offline AI? This is a real-world reflection on spirituality, resilience, and finding light in unexpected places.

here's what the ai had to say about ostara

Significance of Ostara Celebration of Renewal and Fertility

Ostara symbolizes renewal, fertility, and growth. It is a time to celebrate the increasing light and the awakening of nature. Traditions often involve:

Planting seeds and preparing gardens.
Celebrating fertility in all forms, including creative endeavors.
Honoring the balance between light and darkness.

Deities and Symbols

The name Ostara is derived from the Germanic goddess Eostre, associated with spring and fertility. Symbols commonly linked to this festival include:

Eggs: Representing new life.
Rabbits: Symbolizing fertility and abundance.
Flowers: Such as daffodils and spring blooms.

Activities and Customs Common Practices

Egg Decorating: This custom is widely recognized and 
  often involves decorating eggs to symbolize new life.
Bonfires: Lighting bonfires to represent the sun's return.
Feasting: Sharing meals that include seasonal foods, such as greens and 
 root vegetables.

Rituals and Ceremonies

People may perform rituals to honor the earth, express gratitude for fertility, and invoke blessings for the growing season.

thank you Ai bye bye bah brain fog stopted my Ostara explanation lol typical

still, Yes, I follow the wheel of the year and the wiccan rede but thats me personally, and uh it's a great thing. But that's my own personal belief system, my own path, being as I am a Gnostic Wiccan, which is quite a mouthful. Haha. Well, anyway, today is feeling really, really positive. Strangely enough, my autonomic dysfunction has slightly muted today, and my mood has changed. Even the usual tinnitus has decided to quieten down slightly.

And yes, on the front of Linux. Things have gone so so. I still have Linux, I'm still using it, in fact I'm doing this post on Linux. But unfortunately, it looks like I've got to have a Windows 10 or 11 PC as well to do certain things. So I'm chickened out, I do not want to do a dual boot. So I actually had a bit of luck. So I've managed to get hold of a small factor form PC, which I will be able to put Windows 10 on, and there we go. Hey ho, I should be things as normal soon, hopefully, but you never can tell things can go bonkers in my world.

The thing was I was looking at the price of memory RAM DDR or whatever you like to call it. And apparently all the AI centres and big computer people are buying up all the RAM. So people like us can't buy it because it's all sold, and well, I'm gonna have to get some Sodims. That sounds rather rude, but being small form Sodims are around. And it will help with the AI that I'm now running that I have sort of out. So I have my own AI running on my machine, which is great, and I have several different versions of which I do not have to pay for, and I can use offline and don't have to connect to the internet to use them. So that is indeed awesome. And I'm having a great deal of success using them as well, and I recommend people go get LM Studio and have a go for themselves.

I am managing to do a great deal of research and it is amazing how much information you can glean using the AI. I in fact have moved several strides forward with some amazing results.At the moment I am doing a lot of research on the Gnostic view of death and what comes after death, and it is interesting having the proper interpretations, so to speak, being raw and unfiltered rather than being censored or having somebody's words spouting off what they think because I want to know what I think, not what others do.

It's been an amazing journey the last year. I have found out so much about myself and my health as well. It's amazing what a year can do for a person. I've died, I've come back, I'm just don't know who I am anymore sometimes, but hey ho, I keep on fighting, and that's my point. I've got to keep on fighting because if I don't and I give up, what's left in life but nothing. So yeah, remember, always be positive, always be happy. I know life can be depressing, and illness, chronic illness can piss you right off some days, but remember, hang on in there because guess what? It can get better, but the person that makes it better is yourself. No one else will help you, everybody else will put you down, everybody else will write you off. It's you yourself that has to go for it and really go for it. Sod what others think. That's what I say, you have to be you. You have to be the authentic true version of yourself.

Life is a journey with many stops along the way. Anyhow, I'm on the bus of life just like everybody else. It's just that my stop's nearer the terminus than most people. Anyway, wishing everybody peace, healing, love and light, no matter who or what you are.

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.

Rain, Kittens, Orbs, and the Question of Sanity

The rain came down like it had a personal grudge.

Not a polite drizzle. Not that apologetic British mist that says sorry as it dampens your jacket. This was proper biblical nonsense drains overflowing, gutters giving up, the kind of rain that makes you laugh and think, Well then… water shortage this summer, obviously. Humanoids are marvellous at panicking about drought while actively floating away.

I woke around 4:30am to what can only be described as a purring industrial estate. One kitten asleep on my head. Another wedged into my neck and beard like it had taken out a long‑term lease. Engines running. Vibrations everywhere. If cats are supposed to be aloof, these two missed the memo and went straight for emotional blackmail.

Then came the inevitable.

Kitten. Christmas tree. Gravity.

Yes — the tree ended up on the floor. No — the kitten did not care. In fact, she looked smug. Decorations everywhere, tinsel hanging like festive entrails. We laughed because the alternative was crying, and crying before breakfast feels a bit ambitious.

Looking Up (and Not Seeing Much)

I still look at the sky.

According to the internet, it should be crawling with orbs, UAPs, UFOs, visitors popping in like it’s a motorway service station. I look up and see clouds, rain, and the occasional star when the southwest decides to be generous. No glowing ambassadors from beyond. Either I need new glasses or I’m simply not on the invite list.

That said, I do see strange things sometimes. Flickers. Patterns. Moments that make me stop and think, Hang on… what was that? And that’s where the internal interrogation starts:

Am I seeing something genuinely odd? Or am I seeing reality through a nervous system that’s been joyfully sabotaged?

I live with multiple sclerosis. I live with brain fog. I live with an autonomic system that behaves like it’s freelancing without supervision. When that’s your baseline, you don’t get the luxury of trusting perception — but you also don’t get to dismiss it outright. You’re stuck in the grey bit, where certainty goes to die.

The Medical Cul‑de‑Sac

I did the neurological tour. Thoroughly.

Scans. Clinics. Explanations that manage to be both technical and utterly hollow. MS can do this. MS can do that. Yes, thank you I’ve noticed. Useful, but spiritually about as nourishing as a hospital biscuit.

So I widened the lens.

Philosophy. Consciousness. Vallée. Keel. The trickster nature of reality. Not because I want to declare myself special or enlightened — but because pretending the questions don’t exist feels like intellectual cowardice.

Enter AI, Wearing a High‑Vis Jacket

Asking AI was… an experience. it tried to sanitise everything.

Dietary help? Genuinely useful. When your body treats half the food supply like a personal attack, clarity matters.

Spiritually? Absolutely allergic to nuance.

Everything funnelled straight into pathology. Everything gently but firmly steered toward “this is all in your head, dear.” Not curiosity compliance. Ask a question about perception and suddenly you’re wrapped in digital bubble wrap with a warning label.

Here’s the blunt bit: AI doesn’t think. It reflects.

It reflects liability fears, cultural assumptions, and the worldview of its programmers. Which means spirituality gets treated like a software bug, and lived experience gets flattened into symptom management. That’s not wisdom that’s risk assessment pretending to care.

So Am I Mad, Then?

Let’s not mince words.

MS makes your interface with reality noisy. Signals overlap. The brain flags nonsense as urgent and sometimes ignores what actually matters. That’s biology, not a moral failure.

But and this is where everyone gets lazy neurological explanation does not automatically equal existential erasure.

Not everything is meaningless. Not everything is a cosmic message either.

The real work is discernment, which is far less glamorous than revelation.

Questioning your own experiences isn’t madness it’s grounding. Wondering whether something is neurological, psychological, or something else entirely is not delusion it’s honesty. Certainty without humility, on the other hand, is where things go properly sideways.

I don’t claim gifts. I don’t claim answers. I claim decades of odd experiences, a damaged nervous system, a functioning bullshit detector, and the right to sit with uncertainty without being patronised.

Where I’ve Ended Up (So Far)

I trust neither blind belief nor blind dismissal.

Doctors don’t have the full picture. AI definitely doesn’t. Spiritual circles often disappear up their own arse. Hard materialism leaves too much unexplained.

Reality, inconveniently, refuses to be tidy.

So I keep one foot on the ground, one eye on the sky, and both hands firmly on my own nonsense especially on bad days.

Some days are pain, fog, and unreality. Some days are kittens, rain, and laughter.

I send peace, healing, love, and light anyway to everyone not because everything’s fine, but because choosing bitterness would be the final indignity.

If this season means anything at all, it’s this: More days turning into more days. Still here. Still asking.

That’ll do.

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.

Seems the closer I get to death, the more I’m remembering. That’s odd I usually don’t remember much these days. As the weather turns cold and slides into winter, I’ve been looking at the local online papers, and it seems the season of self-isolation has begun again.

I don’t want COVID again. Had it twice not pleasant. I still remember that as the worst Christmas Day and week I ever had. Then there are the stomach issues. I wish people would just wash their hands; it stops the transmission of bugs.

I still smell like a dog chew, apparently, and now I’ve started speaking fluent Welsh according to the AI. Weird in the extreme. We had a chat about it, and, well, turns out I really had spoken fluent Welsh dialect. Strange days.

I remember once, a long time ago, a spirit channelled through me Scottish, proud as anything. Even changed my voice patterns. The message that came through changed my life, and probably my path entirely.

At the time, I was living and working out of a derelict car and sometimes a shed in a cemetery. Such was the 1970s and early ’80s. London was a blast back then — the bike scene was legendary. I met notorious biker clubs, gangsters, and some truly amazing people. I had an incredible time… until I didn’t.

Then came the illness and the struggles. But those people, good and bad, shaped me. When I was young, I respected people that others shied away from. They were the most genuine folks I’ve ever met. Every tattoo means something. Every scar holds a memory happy or sad.

I struggle to remember most of my early life and the people in it. I went back to where I spent my first sixteen years didn’t recognise a thing. That’s where I was misunderstood the most, struggling with an illness that was already taking hold of my life.

Sixty-six years of struggle, nearly over now. Looking back, there were only five or six true friends in my entire life people who really understood me. They’re all dead now. Every one of them gone.

All my friends have died the ones who saw the real me, the weird, psychic, tinfoil-hat-wearing warlock. My only sin was being misunderstood and eccentric, having a lot to give but no one to give it to.

Friendship true friendship only comes around a few times in a lifetime. I was a cuckoo in three families because of adoption, and I fit in with none except my own.

My birth parents are both dead now, within the last two years. I didn’t fit in with that family either brothers and sisters didn’t want to know. My father’s side, my mother’s side — they all hate me. Even my full-blood sister doesn’t speak to me; she’s even more fucked up than I was.

The family that adopted me were violent and abusive. So yeah fuck them too. So-called Christians.

This is turning into a raw rant, but it makes me feel a bit better. Sorry about the language. But if you’ve ever been through anything like this, you know how twisted it gets. The pain goes after a while. You come back stronger.

You look in the mirror and say, I am who I am. Sorry, I cannot change. I am me.

That’s the problem sometimes.

I used to do live podcasts back in the day I suppose I miss that. We even did some music, too.

I really do love life, trust me. I’m smiling.

Maybe I’ll start a podcast again. Get guests who can talk and chew the cud about what it feels like to be fucked up by seen or unseen illness the kind that can hit anyone, anytime. Like it hit me, with multiple sclerosis and all its lovely trimmings.

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

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

⚠️ 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.

People love to quote Plato like he was the first bloke to stare at a wall and call it a revelation.
“Look,” they say, “we’re all prisoners in the cave of illusion.”
Nice theory, mate.
Try living in a body that’s staging a coup d’état against your nervous system, and tell me again about shadows.

Progressive MS the words themselves are a joke.
Progressive, like I’m advancing somewhere.
All I’m advancing toward is gravity, confusion, and the slow betrayal of my own wiring. My legs don’t walk, my hands improvise, and my mind sometimes wanders off without leaving a note. If that’s not Plato’s cave, I don’t know what is. Only mine’s not carved in stone it’s flesh, bone, and electrical static.

Plato imagined people chained, staring at shadows, mistaking illusion for reality.
I get it. I mistake memories for motion every day.
I remember what it felt like to move freely the smooth mechanical grace of a body obeying thought.
Now it’s all echoes on the wall.
I reach out for those memories like a fool, knowing full well the limbs won’t answer. That’s the cruelty of it: the mind remembers what the body refuses to perform.

They say gnosis that secret knowing is enlightenment.
Bullshit. It’s not light pouring in. It’s the realisation that there is no exit.
The body is the cave. The mind is the flickering torchlight throwing half-truths across the wall.
The trick isn’t escaping — it’s learning to see in the dark.
To live with the shadows long enough that they start whispering secrets.

Some days the fog rolls in, and cognition slips through my fingers like smoke.
That’s when the cave gets loud echoes of frustration, grief, rage.
But beneath that noise, there’s something else: stillness.
When the body fails, awareness sharpens.
It’s like the universe is saying, Fine, you can’t move so you’ll learn to observe.
And in that stillness, gnosis crawls in. Not as comfort, but as clarity.

Plato’s philosopher escaped the cave to see the light of truth.
I’m not escaping anywhere.
The ascent isn’t physical; it’s inward.
It’s turning toward the source that’s both pain and perception, realising you were never separate from the wall, the fire, or the shadow.
You’re the whole damn projection body, soul, and malfunction.

So yes, I’m stuck in my cave. But it’s mine.
The shadows on the wall are memories, regrets, small victories, and dark jokes that only I laugh at.
Sometimes they dance. Sometimes they just sit there, silent and honest.
And that’s enough.
Enlightenment doesn’t mean walking out into the sun — it means looking straight at the darkness and recognising your own reflection.

Maybe Plato climbed out.
Maybe I just learned to redecorate.

Either way, the cave’s got Wi-Fi now, and I’ve got words.
The shadows move, the neurons misfire, but I’m still here still watching, still learning, still goddamn alive.

Plato had his cave. I’ve got MS, a powerchair, and a front-row seat to the shadows. You don’t escape the body you learn to see in the dark.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

Today I think I may evaporate.

Not metaphorically, either I mean literally melt into a glistening puddle on the floor like the wicked witch of Walthamstow. The heat is biblical, the air thick with resentment, and if this goes on much longer, someone’s going to find a beard and a pair of shades just floating where a warlock once sat.

It’s too hot for coherent thoughts, so obviously the brain’s doing backflips and the MS has decided to turn the “cognitive dysfunction” dial up to 11. Words don’t just escape me they actively mock me. I sit here smiling, half-lucid, fully furious, fully me. Because no matter what the system, the diagnosis, or the temperature says I know I’ve got more to give.

They wrote me off just before my state pension, bless them. Nice timing. But I’m still here, inconveniently alive and louder than ever. The nerves in my gut are throwing a tantrum, my stress levels are spiking like a dodgy ECG, and to top it off the last of my savings waved me goodbye this morning. Cheers, love. Don’t call.

But here’s the kicker: I’m still smiling. Not because I’m some chipper TikTok disability guru with fake eyelashes and a ring light, but because I’m free. I don’t belong to any bloody wing of politics. Left, right, centre? You’re all still part of the same bird, love and it’s got mange. The world they squawk about isn’t mine. Mine’s quieter, darker, more honest. My world is real. Full of pain, insight, weirdness, and the kind of laughter that sounds a bit like crying.

You see, I’m part of something else. The One. The Everything. The Divine Love. That throb in your chest when you’re alone and honest that’s where I live. I wish peace and healing to every poor soul who stumbles across this digital haunted house I call a blog. Because no matter where we are, what we’re facing, we can change. It’s inside us all. Just buried under decades of fear, trauma, and daytime television.

We’re at a crossroads now, all of us. Some of us limping, some of us rolling, some of us dragged along by sheer bloody spite. But destiny’s cracking her knuckles. Evolution’s knocking at the door, and if you’re still wearing your silly little face mask of denial—best take it off now. Truth stinks, and it’s getting in anyway.

I’m not afraid of death. I’ve danced with it enough times to know its rhythm. I’ve looked into its eyes and said, “Not today, mate. I’ve got a blog post to write.” And as I sit here dripping, broke, buzzing on antihistamines and maybe the ghost of Mary Jane, I realise I’m on another plane entirely. One not many choose to visit. It’s dark, yes but in that darkness, you’ll find the light. The real light. The kind that doesn’t need electricity or permission.

So yeah. It’s hot. The world’s on fire. I’ve got no money, and half my neurons have buggered off on holiday. But I’ve never been more alive.

To all of you peace, healing, divine truth. Go find your demon and kiss it on the mouth. That’s how we win.

Mr Warlock Dark

                       “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

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 ✨