The Magician should inflame himself, and this is hislahabus or self-intoxication, which the Qabalists conceived to be the very cup of grace, and the wine of life. Every nerve, every fibre of the individual–physical, astral, mental; every atom in whatsoever department of man’s constitution should be keyed up to fever pitch and all the faculties of the soul exalted to the uttermost. Just as the artist–the poet, the dancer, the lover even–is carried away in a madness of white-hot passion, a frenzy of creativity, so must it be for the Magician. He should be propelled in his ceremony by a mantic enthusiasm which, although in him and a necessary part of the forces which compose him, is by no means that which he normally includes in his Ruach. It has no part in the wake-a-day worldly ego, although it exalts this ego on a crest of bliss, so that all consciousness of its existence is transcended, suffering a new birth with a larger and a wider horizon.
can someone leave some sort of supportive comment?
I really think I’ve been forgotten at this point
My job doesn’t bother me
What does however, is that people act like it should. And when I explain that actually, I really enjoy my job, you act like there is something wrong with me. As if it’s impossible that I do this because I like genuinely like it.
22 and full of grief, nothing unheard of
yeah, seriously fuck everything
I’m on foodstamps, disability, medicare, etc. and can’t get anywhere in life.
My constant anxiety keeps me from having a job, and it seems like you need a fucking degree just to work an entry level job.
I just started therapy after a year without any sort of psychology support and insurance. Social security: Too fucking late, your checks only partially help with rent and even then my fiance and I struggle.
No one ever buys anything from me, and even then I’m afraid of going outside to ship things largely due to being transgender. And most people don’t realize this and will go out of their way to harass me over $15.
No one commissions me, and I really can’t focus enough to do any art and music anymore. I’m dead inside and notions of ‘inspiration’, ‘just doing it’, and doing it for some sort of release doesn’t mean anything for me anymore.
I feel abandoned, sick, tired, worn out, thrown aside, scorned, exiled, meaningless, and ever growing list of words for alienation and despair.
I’m not looking for fame and fortune, I’m just looking for reasons to keep dealing with an already ended world.