Our world is in the grip of forces beyond our control.
Matter, gravity, linear time. We are specks of inconsequential dust upon the winds of these elements.
But we’re clever specks of dust. We can observe, react, even steer ourselves to some degree within the path of these winds.
Inside our limited scope, we have created forces of our own, through millennia of trial and error.
Language, currency, civilisation. None of these are inalienable physical laws, by any objective standard they’re fragile as a newborn. Yet they hold in their sway the fates of billions of human beings.
There is a dialogue, of sorts, between ourselves and the gods we have made for ourselves, and between those gods and the fundamental ruling principles.
By bargaining with the demons of science and capital, we have mastered flight, but only indirectly. Man cannot fly without his gods providing him the technology and resources to do so. Thus, it is not man who has bartered with gravity; we have bartered with the spirits of science and money. They, on our behalf, have petitioned gravity to give us a free pass.
So limited are we in our perception that to even try and name these gods and elements gets tricky. You know what I mean when I say ‘science,’ but it’s woefully inexact. Likewise ‘time’ and ‘space’ are merely the best tags we’ve come up with so far. No different to how the ancients would slap upon a raging sea the label of ‘Poseidon.’
Wiser beings than ourselves would cultivate detachment from these labels, aligning instead with the intuited principles of those forces which speak to us, the gods whose call we hear in our hearts.
Ego has other ideas.
Ego, the demon Choronzon, has us serving the label instead of the force which it describes. It has us walking on a map, believing it to be the road. It has us trying to feed ourselves by devouring a menu.
Thus, can the devil Neoliberalism (the trickster child of Capitalism) desecrate that temple to Socialism which was the British Labour Party, all by the hand of the dark magus, Tony Blair. Our nation calls Democracy its mother, but is infested by the spiteful offspring of Feudalism wearing her face. Nationalism pulls the old switcheroo with Patriotism, and nobody’s any the wiser.
To work magick is to understand the forces which we have created in our image, to know them and converse with them freely no matter what mask they wear. The occultist is the messenger between the human race and its gods, in the realest and most literal sense. Only True Will can conquer Choronzon. Only the most powerful can wield True Will.
Magick demands progress. It bellows for inclusivity, and insists that all who carry out the Great Work be respected as equals. Only those who weaponise the truth for personal gain can be accurately called black magicians. Manson. Stalin. Murdoch.
As for the rest of us, it’s an interesting time to be alive. Ours are the tools to petition Justice, befriend Wisdom, and romance Love itself. Together, we can make staunch allies of every conceivable virtue, and wage jihad upon Tyranny, Ignorance, and Death.
Or, ours is the freedom to die trying. Others will avenge us, but not for all the world would I trade the honour of standing here, with you, at the Twilight of the Gods, playing for all the marbles on the shoulders of giants.
I hope this has cleared things up for you.