#ceremonial magic

imaginarywitchcraft-deactivated:

I’ve created a discord server for those who walk a more traditional path in the craft. This includes tradcraft, cultural/folk magic, ceremonial magic, druidry, etc. If you think this fits you and you’re interested in joining, please set me a DM.

(You can send a dm my way as well if you’d like)

imaginarywitchcraft-deactivated:

Practitioner Rendezvous

I run a small, 18+ discord server that focuses on serious practitioners that are willing to be challenged and to grow in their craft.

We mainly focus on tradcraft, ceremonial magics, folk magic, druidry, etc but any serious, 18+ practitioner is welcomed to join.

Please DM me or @north-shore-witch for a link.

Sceau de l’Archange Gabriel

“Il se doit d’être invoqué un jeudi avant l’aurore. Son pouvoir est très grand et il peut faire un grand bien, à travers lequel il t’instruira.”

- extrait du Grimoire d’Armandel

“Despite the speed with which the wave of smothering depression was upon him, Mick was not aware of its arrival, and was instantly convinced that what was now roiling like toxic fumes inside his mind had always been his point of view, his usual optimism nothing but a fraud, a flimsy tissue behind which he hid from what he knew was the inevitable truth. There was no point. There was no point and there had never been a point to all this grief and graft and grovelling, to being alive. When the heart failed or the brain died, he’d always really known inside, we just stopped thinking. Everyone knew that within their sinking, secret heart, whatever they might say. We all stopped being who we were, we just shut down and there was nowhere that we got beamed up to after that, no Heaven, Hell or reincarnation as a better person. There was only nothing after death, and nothing else but nothing, and for everyone the universe would all be gone the moment they exhaled their final breath, just as though they and it were never there. He didn’t really sometimes feel the warmth and presence of his parents still around him, he just kidded himself now and then that this was what he felt. Tom and Doreen were gone, dad from a heart attack and mum from cancer of the bowel that must have hurt so much. He wasn’t ever going to see them anymore.

Mick had by this point reached the bottom of the ramp, and the incinerator odour was now everywhere. He tried to raise a flutter of resistance to the irrefutable awareness that pressed down upon him, tried to summon all the arguments that he was sure that he’d once had against this hopeless blackness. Love. His love for Cathy and the kids. That had been one of his protective mantras, he was certain, except love just made things crueller, gave you so much more to lose. One partner dies first and the other spends their final years alone and crushed. You love your kids and watch them grow to something wonderful and then you have to leave them and not meet with them again. And all so short, seventy years or so, with him near fifty now. That’s twenty years, assuming that you’re lucky, less than half of what had already slipped by, and Mick felt certain that these final decades would flash past with grim rapidity.

Everyone went away. Everything vanished. People, places, turned to painful shadows of their former selves and then were put to sleep, just like the Boroughs had been.”