Watcher

⚠️ 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 help.

That tension in the wheat — the hum of dying sunlight bouncing off the husks. Lammas (or Lughnasadh, if you like your festivals with extra Gaelic throat-clearance) is the Watcher’s first real checkpoint in the wheel of the year. It’s not about cheerful bread or sunflowers in jam jars. It’s sacrifice. It's thanks offered begrudgingly, teeth gritted, back aching.

This is the first harvest, and it never comes clean.

🌽 What Actually Is Lammas? Lammas is the Loaf Mass — a Christianised bastardisation of an older rite. Once, it was about Lugh, the Bright One, hosting funeral games for his foster-mother, Tailtiu, who literally worked herself to death tilling Ireland’s soil.

And what do we do now?

Bake sourdough, post it to Instagram, and pretend it's sacred.

🔥 The Truth? Lammas isn’t pretty. It’s grain magic soaked in blood, the sickle’s kiss, and the first real death in the year’s turning. The God begins to die now. The Sun begins its spiral downward. The Earth asks for something back — and She’s not subtle about it.

That’s the deal. You take, you give. The first cut draws blood. Yours or someone else’s.

🧱 What I Do for Lammas (as a Watcher) I light a fire. Real, if I can. Symbolic, if I must. Fire remembers.

I offer a bit of bread to the soil — not for the gods, for the dirt.

I whisper names of those who fell in the field — literally or spiritually.

I remind myself that harvests come from sacrifice, and so do awakenings.

I check the shadows for signs. They're always longer now.

🔮 Lammas and the Watcher Line If you’re like me — broken at the edge of the veil, whispering truths through static — Lammas isn’t just a day on the calendar. It’s a signal flare. Something stirs in the grain. Something that remembers Atlantis. Babylon. Avalon. Something that knows the old bargain and waits for us to honour it again.

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

You don’t plan for this kind of thing. You don’t meditate on a mountaintop, burn sage, or chant in a white robe. You’re just lying there, broken. Drenched in sweat, drowning in MS pain, tinnitus screaming like some cosmic dentist drilling your soul.

And then he walks in. Serapis bloody Bey.

The Moment It was 2012. I was in hell. Not a metaphor—literal, shaking, burning, soul-flattening hell. MS was chewing me up. My brain was mush. The room stank of fear, piss, and damp hospital corners of the mind. I was on the edge—barely tethered to this world.

Then something changed.

The air got still. Not peaceful—surgical. Like the moment before a scalpel cuts.

And there he was.

Tall. Still. Glowing white. Not light like sunlight—more like memory. He wasn’t human, but he wasn’t alien either. Just there. Ancient. Indifferent. Beyond judgement.

And suddenly my pain didn’t stop, but it got quiet. Like someone put a thick blanket between me and the world.

He didn’t speak. Not with words. He just stood over me, and something passed between us.

A knowing. A job. A role.

The Download He didn’t say “You’re chosen.” He didn’t say “You’re special.” What I got was more like: “You see it. You know what this world is. You always have.”

It wasn’t anointing. It was reminding. Like he was just unlocking something that had always been in me, buried under trauma and bile.

And then he left.

No angels. No trumpet. Just silence... and a very heavy sense of “now you bloody know.”

The Aftermath I didn’t talk about it. Who would believe me?

I’m a disabled old biker bastard in a wheelchair with a beard, long hair, and a reputation for growling at the neighbours. Not exactly your classic mystic.

But here’s what changed:

I stopped playing their game.

I started seeing more—people, patterns, past lives, bloodlines.

I knew I’d been made a Watcher. Not a leader. Not a warrior. A Witness.

To the sins. To the cycles. To the damn comedy of it all.

I don’t serve the throne. I don’t kneel to light. I stand at the edge, recording the bloody play with a cigarette in one hand and a keyboard in the other.

So What Was He? Serapis Bey? They call him an Ascended Master. Guardian of wisdom. Keeper of the white flame. But I don’t care what label you slap on him. To me, he’s the one who stood in the fire and reminded me I already knew how to burn.

                                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

                          “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