There’s a cost to miracles. When we wait for miracles, we forgot the miracle of our own impetus. We forget the miracle of our free will, and bind ourselves between two narrow rails of being.

How often does magic work, and we ignore it, because it did not work between the rails? How often do we, say, finally have that opportunity for money but fail to see it because we have so firmly circumscribed ourselves into poverty?

Almost every magician I know — those who will admit it anyway — has a blind spot, an area that magic rarely works in. For some, it’s Jupiter; there’s even one rather famous occultist, more famous than me, that’s for damned sure, who has publically admitted that he can’t get money spells to work. For others, it’s Venus; there’s another rather unfamous occultist (exactly as famous as me, in fact), who’s still single, for example, despite occasional efforts to the contrary.

And that’s just it. There’s a certain comfort in being single, or even in being in poverty (yes, I have been in poverty, so I know) — at least there’s a routine, and no need to change, to grow, to become.

I imagine, if they exist (and I doubt they do), that black brothers are mighty comfy.


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