The curse of the Human Spirit
3:00 am, welcome to the witching hour.
A full moon had come arise, casting a vibrant beam which reflected against the glasses upon my face, tired and exhausted… Thoughts of sleep madden the mind. I sat amongst my study the crackling of the fire giving calm as the magick of the hour took hold. Smoke billowed out of the chimney the only sign of life amongst the abode of the forgotten.
Once long ago, I was one of legend, a hero one may say. Yet I prefer the word hope…
Time had allowed for solitude and such the hero of the New World lived a quiet life hidden amongst the many citizens of her people. Truth be told all, and all the home was but an ordinary house. Victorian in style, rather old, like that of herself it came with all the quarks, and inconveniences that accompany such.
I sat alone, bathed beneath the glow of an ancient kerosene lamp, such a soothing ambiance for one who was burning the midnight oil. Even after two cups of coffee I was fighting seduction of my bed. Humming amongst myself, in a feeble attempt to drown out the whispering of tantalizing words of perversion attempting to lure me away from my studies.
Sitting at my desk with my pen in hand, I had been a state of frustration for well over an hour, for once again I found myself suffering from a severe case of writer’s block. The document was far from finished. After nearly ten years of work it had all led up to this moment, files after, files of data, and text scattered across her desk in the unsightliness of fashion. The time to put such insanity to rest had finally come, her life’s work leading up to this very moment, and in the feat of her inspiration her mind had drawn blank… such a feeling is enough to drive the sanest of minds, to the point of madness.
Upon countless occasions I found myself taking a sip of brandy to wash away the burden. This was to mark the fifth such occasion in the past two hours. Once again, my mind had drifted to a state of daydream, this state of illusion had become all the common when one is suffering from the critical illness of writer’s block…
A log had sparked causing embers to scatter and fall to the carpet giving the shag rug a rather nasty sing. I was quick to stop out its remains, my loafers taking aim at the fiery embers which smothered under foot. Yet another scar of beauty amongst the many throughout the trail of years…
With the kiss of the flames, the spell had been broken. I had been gifted with the grace of inspiration once again, and I have learned that when the call of a muse is heard; it is best not ignored. I dashed across the room, downing the last of my brandy, a reward for the nerves as I snatched my pen in hand, and began to eagerly write.
The child of the human spirit brings hope for the future of humanity. Ignorance of the past, history forgotten, and dismissed has compelled me to pick up the pen and document the stories, hardships, and literature of my era to pass along my voice in hopes that it does not fall upon the ears of the def or enter the minds of the daft.
Now retaining to that of the authenticity of the history of the world of magick; I have taken all the necessary steps to research the subject at hand. This was not an easy task may I add for the antiquity of the Magickal Community has become somewhat lost and tarnished. History long since lost, buried, yet by no means forgotten… All of which I can assure you shall be further explained with detail and interest.
To best understand the realm of Magick one might consider taking a class on metaphysics yet simply it is defined as such…
Magick: the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with will.
- Aleister Crowley
With the muse empowering me from within my pen continued upon its journey, will and voice that of its own. This all but concludes my introductory statement however I feel that I should issue a noted warning from the Author.
This is a tale of sadness, horror, war, death and remorse not by choice of the author may I add but by necessity. I am forced to work with history and such deemed to wield my pen within the restrictions of its realms no matter how dark and grey they may appear. Yet within the morbid theme of war lies the magick of love, friendship, and hope.
Now that the Introduction has conclude I hereby bring you:
The curse of the Human Spirit
A tale By
Raeona M. Wildman