#meth and black magicks

[thenightling]

The black magick / drug addiction allegory

The drug addiction allegory:

Note:  This is not about the use of magick in general, but very specifically black magick in works of fiction where many (if not most) characters use magick, usually for good.

Has anyone noticed that for the last twenty or so years black magick has been used as an allegory for drug addiction in fantasy fiction?

In Buffy The Vampire Slayer when Willow The Witch got addicted to using dark magick, you even see her going to a seedy part of town and dealing with unsavory types to get her fix.

In The Dresden Files novels by Jim Butcher there is a line about black magick of "Black magick is fun and easy, like Legos."  This is while Harry Dresden is describing the addictive nature of dark magick.

The Dresden Files novels and short lived TV show talk about how most people who use dark magick, even just once, eventually go back to using it.  That's how strong the addiction is.  It's comparable to heroin or meth.

The Hellblazer comics featuring John Constantine touch on this a few times.

I noticed that in The Sandman Netflix series when we get the flashback of Astra and her father, it's blatantly a drug overdose allegory.

He seems to be invoking demons for the thrill of it, the high of it.  He and his friends.   He even looks and acts like a stereotype junkie.  And we are told that this was not the first time he went "too far" with it.

It was like he and his buddies had been shooting up drugs in the back room at a party and he had been stupid enough to take his kid along.

With the visual and verbal cue allegories in place I think it may be safe to suspect that much like Harry Dresden and John Constantine, Johanna might have a personal struggle resisting the temptation to use not-so-light magick.

Since they went this far with the drug addiction symbolism, I'm surprised they didn't leave in Rachel snorting the dream sand for a high that ultimately killed her.  

#The Sandman #Sandman #Johanna Constantine #Jim Butcher #The Dresden Files #Buffy The Vampire Slayer

[librettistalibrarienne]

Pome21

Spit and spin, shit-eating grin Ten-to-one-to-win some zen. Not to shew my hand too soon But we’ve all caught ourselves automatic writing At Chick-Fil-A, imposing an ambrosial magick On the most mundane meat-and-mannered-music membranes, Helped by Neohachi (hatchchoichoichakechek-SHUP) And sabbatical breezes sneazing My pink half of the painpipe To a friendly frenzy acquired the wrath of gob. Kenturfucky Finger-Pissing Chickpeas: A Humdinger of A Hummus for Humes Hunks and Dinguses, Marry Maury 4Chanukah Goys and gays, to coin a phrase, Turncoat of teapots, or boiled bedthings be your playclothes! I’ve done my head clean in with a meth club thumbnail, As sure as my name is the Last College-Educated White Person Who Still Hasn’t Seen the Wire. ??? Pummeling drummelingo. Christ Cutler Black Clover Crushed Butler, By Jeeves! It’s been a while since I felt a real nice sick shiver of shame. I’d almost convinced myself I was ready to grow up - Ready to be, if not normal, than at least competent. And to transition. Looking at myself through the eyes of my 12-yo nephew spoiled that. And pissing myself. I got cockity and forgot the reason I don’t use urinals Has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with defective genitals. OH GOD HERE COME THE NONSENSE: Impeded stampedes of weededed leaves of Beatrix Potter’s Hotter older sister’s tragic cabbage plant, Cities Van Zandt. She had a nose on her like an anime gambler, A real tea-cake-cutting snozz a la Giada Torquemada, And her Armada of Cannon Fodda. Hello Fudda. Hello Modda. Natalie is a bourgeois construct.

#queer poets on tumblr #queer poetry #queer poems #poets corner #poetblr #female poets #my poem #poetry #poetrycommunity

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Like the Rat You Are

Rows upon rows of metal carcasses towered on both sides of the narrow valley of steel. Piles of trashed automobile wrecks, silent and dead, stacked to the high heavens. Metal and plastic scrap parts littered the dirty ground in between these monoliths of trash. Broken glass crunched underneath Kevin’s boot.

The sound of it echoed through these artificial canyons of industrial refuse, causing him to pause and look around with a sensation bordering on a panic. Under the cover of night, in the dead silence, that sound sliced through the sky like a knife. His heart raced, accelerating to ever greater heights as he held his breath and listened for any audible clue of reactions to the noise he had inadvertently caused.

After nearly a minute passed, he continued creeping through the junkyard. Closer and closer to the head office at its center, sneaking underneath the looming shadow of the claw that the crane and magnet-arms cast in the moonlight. He tried peering through windows to see inside the dark office, but grime and filth caked its panes, obscuring everything within.

The rusty metal of the door’s handle felt cold in his hand as he gripped it. And twisted. The door was open. Unlocked. Made sense, given that most of Dusty’s security focused on the entering the premises, rather than what was on the messy grounds.

For a moment, Kevin thought that he might succeed at this without anybody dying, after all.

He stepped inside and looked around. It smelled of metal dust and rust. And of the cold itself. It was deeply cold in here, almost more so than outside. So cold that his breath condensed into little clouds just in front of his mouth. That all disappeared when he closed the door behind himself.

The faint remnants of light that managed to seep in through the dirt on the office windows rendered everything in vague, dark silhouettes. There were probably shelves stacked with things, and chairs, and a desk. And yet other things, bunched up against the wall.

To shed some light, he removed a stainless steel lighter from his leather jacket’s pocket, flicked it open, and snapped the flint so it produced its tiny flame. With luck, tiny enough to not be too conspicuous, but enough to see anything in there.

Without any sign of life in the junkyard except for himself, and a more deafening silence inside the office, his heartbeat calmed from the pace it had picked up during his stealthy approach. He swallowed and took in his surroundings.

Most of what he expected to find in Dusty McVeigh’s office was there. The place was a terrible mess, but not any worse than some of the trailer trash homes, dingy motels, abandoned derelicts filled with squatters, and other run-down places Kevin had been in and out of over the course of the past year. Sometimes, that’s just where our mystical journeys take us. This was Kevin’s path.

A pile of random junk cluttered Dusty’s desk, but none of it caught Kevin’s eye. The things that stood out the most were the big solid black safe next to the water cooler—presumably what he had come here for—and an easel with a painting on it, standing all lonely in middle of the room.

The impressionist painting really drew and kept Kevin’s attention. It depicted this same room, with a view through the window onto the junkyard on a bright sunny day.

It was a damn good painting, too, he thought to himself. If Dusty had made this, then he had some serious talent. Maybe he should make a living in art instead of stealing from occult collectors?

The irony of his own thoughts was not lost on him, fully well aware that he was going to steal something from Dusty now.

The artifact had to be inside that safe. It would be the perfect place to keep it secure.

Kevin sidled up to the small vault and looked it over, inspecting its size and make. It looked extremely heavy, like a tow truck would have to drag it out of there, and it had been bolted down onto the floor. So taking the whole shebang was out of the question.

Combination lock. No way of guessing the numbers—Dusty was clever. The bastard would never use any easy combination that anybody could guess. The junkyard owner was missing half his teeth due to a crippling meth addiction and constantly smeared in dirt and motor oil all over, but Dusty McVeigh probably had the IQ of a super-genius. No other way he could work the juju he worked.

Kevin knew better than to just blindly try out different combinations on the lock. Instead, he pressed the tip of his index and middle fingers up against the number wheel of the lock and whispered while inhaling, “Diopes dism, emnothesis iento vingnorm. Mag crein.”

As he focused and the painful words escaped his lips, jumbles of mundane words and numbers coalesced in his mind. He started seeing, hearing, and tasting broken thoughts—thoughts stolen from the void to which Dusty’s thoughts had trailed off to in previous days.

Gazing into the sky while high as a kite, lying on the hood of an old muscle car. Furiously jacking off to photos of half-naked women in magazine advertisements. The cool calm nerves that came with smoking a cigarette after a long day of hard work. An argument with his friend and the pain his knuckles from throwing and landing a punch that connected to bone. Words that did not connect to sentences, numbers that did not belong together. Strings of arcane symbols that Dusty thought about a lot in his occult studies. Lots of books, most of them fiction.

Instead of drawing a sequence of numbers that opened the safe, something else took shape in Kevin’s mind. A pair of eyes. Glaring. Furious. Staring at him through the veil.

Not a memory. But the here and now. Elsewhere, but connected over a bridge of all things ethereal. Dusty had woken up—jolted awake because he had secured this safe with a spell of his own. Something that flared up the moment Kevin had tried to suss out the combination from the environs of the lock itself. Magick bound to the entire safe, clashing with Kevin’s spell, alerting Dusty to an intruder’s presence tampering with the safe in any way—including the intangible ways of magick.

There it was again: the racing heartbeat. Cold sweat erupting from Kevin’s pores. The feeling that bordered on panic, however, had returned with a vengeance. Full-blooded panic now, causing his glands to pump mind-numbing adrenaline throughout his body.

He had to act quickly now. Get creative.

A German shepherd’s barking in the distance underlined that growing sense of urgency balling up into a tight pit in Kevin’s stomach. Floodlights switched on outside, one by one. Bathing the towering piles of car husks in a glaring bright white shine. Turning the whole junkyard into a sea of light.

Before Kevin severed his spell—and thus the connection to that burning image of Dusty’s eyes, he last glimpsed bony hands with dirt under the fingernails gripping a shotgun. Loading slugs into its chamber. Pumping some mechanism, pumping little black-powder-powered agents of death.

Kevin stuffed the lighter back into his pocket, as the floodlights outside did their part in illuminating the office well enough for him to see everything clearly.

He scanned the desk with haste, looking for anything he could use.

Junk—just a lot of junk. He looked around the shelves, finding only tools, scrap parts, and more trash. Nothing useful. Not even a damned thing he could improvise as a useful weapon.

The barking neared. Someone shouted something. Dusty probably would be bringing company, both canine and human. Likely armed to the teeth. Everybody had guns in this neck of the woods, and the six-shooter weighing a ton in Kevin’s pocket would never have enough bullets for all of them. Not like he was much of a fighter anyway; the thing was usually more for show and coercion than anything else.

Then the painting caught his eye again. Dusty was clever, but so was Kevin. A desperate idea formed in his brain; something that might even work out.

The safe was depicted on the painting, too. Dusty’s meticulous attention to detail was going to be useful.

Kevin’s hands trembled as they dug through the assortment of junk on Dusty’s desk. Some of the useless objects clattered and clanked and fell off the surface of the desktop. Frustrated because he knew he had seen what he needed just seconds before but failed to find it now, he swept a whole load of items off the table, causing them to crash down onto the floor.

There it was: a thumbtack. It would serve well enough.

The noise outside got closer and closer. Probably less than a minute away. Creeping across that distance had taken Kevin minutes, but was a matter of seconds for the junkyard’s owner and his goon buddies.

Kevin licked his lips and stood in front of the painting.

“Wisthibrea, sestna wasterei velth, delwen sidrom,” he said, focusing on the painting with all his might. He repeated it again, blotting out the noise drawing ever closer outside.

Kevin then brought the thumbtack’s needle to the painting and began defacing it. Scratching over the safe’s depiction specifically. The scratching sounds swelled to deafening heights, swallowing all other sounds in the world to the point of turning the world around him silent.

He repeated the magick words a third time, this time just whispering them, but every syllable oozing out with clarity and purpose that resonated with the cosmos. He could practically feel the gravity of the stars all around, piercing the nightly sky and those stars seeing him simultaneously. Watching, silently judging. Pulling.

The needle tore into the canvas, chipping away dried paint and ripping up the fabric until it was just shredded threads. He couldn’t even hear his own breathing anymore.

Kevin’s head swiveled and he looked at the safe. Its front was missing, just a gaping hole with frayed edges, solid metal looking like it had been chewed away by a giant with steel teeth.

The contents of the safe were his to take.

A bunch of papers, stacks of cash, and other shit he had no use for.

All he wanted was that small alabaster statuette. Its maker in the 1800s had carved it to look like a praying Franciscan monk, maybe even the eponymous old sage himself. The history behind this thing had no bearing right now, though; Kevin dismissed any such thoughts.

All that mattered was this artifact’s secret power. Not only did he need it to find and get Kim out of that infernal town in Washington, it was now his only ticket of getting out of this jam he had gotten himself into. He grabbed the statuette, clutched it with all his might. Not going to let it go easily, now.

The barking was just outside. Intense. Angry. Hungry, maybe.

Kevin concentrated, wracking his brain to remember the precise words he needed to use to wield this artifact properly.

The shouting had become much clearer, as well.

The man yelling was none other than Dusty himself, swearing up a storm, “You dumb son of a bitch! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, you skinny pale-faced cross-dressing motherfucker, you! I know it’s you! Come out and I’ll make it quick, shithead!”

The windows exploded into a flurry of glass shards, the deafening echo of the gunshot followed, ringing in Kevin’s ears. Something warm trickled down his forehead, which he found to be blood from a fresh cut, from the glass that had shattered in the shot.

He ducked behind the desk, making his way towards the door.

“You’re dead! You hear me? You’re fucking dead!”

Another shot tore a gaping hole through the office’s flimsy wall. A cloud of dust continued to roil in the air in its wake, dancing in the bright light flooding in through that hole.

The pain decided to set in with delay, maybe thanks to the adrenaline. Nothing about it was good though, as it clouded Kevin’s thoughts. He reeled, stumbling and then crawling towards the office’s only door.

The sticky hot mess seeping out between his fingers from his belly region splattered out onto the floor.

He had no time nor capacity to check how bad it really was. Kevin currently couldn’t even be sure if he had been hit by anything from Dusty’s shotgun directly, or if it was just debris that the shots that had blasted through the office wall. Blood was blood. An injury an injury.

It hurt like hell, stinging, and robbing him of the strength needed to spring back up into standing. Every movement burned with an unpleasant fire in his gut. Acting on instinct, he pressed his other hand against it while dragging himself closer to the door, the alabaster statuette clutched in his other hand. Dark crimson dots marred the otherwise pure white surface of the object—his own blood.

Another hit and Kevin would be a goner. It was time to go.

He stared at the statuette in his hand and began reciting the words.

“Etheris brahecket hisret dwerio—”

A coughing fit broke out and interrupted his own speech, and each revolving contraction allowed the pain to flare up even brighter, clouding his field of vision with a darkness encroaching from the edges and bright lights glaring against it, leaving a kaleidoscope of colorful blind spots behind. His eyesight blurred but he blinked several times to dispel that growing visual impairment.

Encouraged by hearing his suffering, Dusty shouted outside, “Yeah, you like that, you lil’ bitch? Gonna string you up and eviscerate your sorry ass. Like the rat you are!”

Kevin gritted his teeth and started from the top, training his stare on the statuette while he repeated the magick words.

It looked so serene. So pure. What it looked like on the surface meant nothing, however. What truly mattered was the life force bound to it. The karma, or dharma, or essence, or mojo, or whatever the hell anybody preferred to call it.

“Etheris brahecket hisret dweriomon,” Kevin recited the magick words. His voice trembled as he focused on the incantation, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his abdomen.

“Son of a—don’t stand around, you lazy fuckers! Get inside and end that walkin’ piece of shit!”

Shuffling of feet. Tiny pieces of garbage and gravel crunching underneath the heels of people nearing the office entrance. Kevin did not need to see them, he knew they were all pointing guns at the door, prepared to kill a man without a second thought.

“Shoshiame wielnod eneroh, plagat thereo eteneadeth,” Kevin finished. Then he started repeating it.

He grunted, struggled to get up on his feet. Another shot tore another hole into the office wall nearby, shattering more glass. Something cut him as a consequence of that, but it was minor and the other pain deep down overshadowed it all.

Kevin let go of his injury and grabbed the rusty metal handle of the office door, leaving a bloody hand print on it. Cold in between his fingers, countering the hot stickiness clinging to his skin. Coarse and rusty, he could practically taste it.

But he never tore his gaze off the statuette, and projected his mind elsewhere. Directed his thoughts to another place. A dank cellar underneath a strip club belonging to a friend of his.

It would do.

He squeezed, twisted the handle, and ripped the door open. Another shot echoed through the air. The dog barked louder and angrier, and the men neared.

But behind that door was that dank cellar, not the junkyard outside the office. Kevin lurched through and slammed the door shut behind him.

The door to the boiler room, adjacent of that dank cellar. Over a thousand miles away from Dusty’s junkyard. Bridging the gap of space between South Dakota and Cleveland.

The relic had worked quite well. Unlike Kevin’s legs, now.

He stumbled forth, coming to a halt against a pillar in the dusty, damp room. He slumped against it and slid down until he remained sitting on the ground, once more gripping the injury where his stomach should be. The blood continued pumping out from there, hot and crimson and sticky. And heralding doom.

He sighed and even that hurt, causing hellfire to ripple through his body from the injury.

Eat shit, Dusty, he thought to himself.

He had retrieved the artifact. But at what price? Everything had a price.

The statuette could do the trick in finding Kim, but that hinged on him surviving this now.

Too bad, though. The blood just continued to pump, like it had waited for this very day to escape his sorry skin. The pain overwhelmed him.

He slipped out of consciousness.

Without any hope of opening his eyes to see another day.

—Submitted by Wratts

#spoospasu #spookyspaghettisundae #horror #short story #writing #my writing #literature #spooky #fiction #submission #Kevin #Dusty #occult #magick #real magick #supernatural #unnatural #sorcery #spell #artifact #relic #surreal #hyperrealism #time and space #violence #gun #firearms #injury #blood #junkyard

[becoming-me-again-v]

Black crystal advice?

A friend of mine with a rather dark past recently asked me for advice on a crystal but I don't know how exactly to help him. I'm attaching the exact texts that he sent me.

"I want to know why I was given this odd black crystal thing when I was losing my mind to the darkness and it helped me regain control. It was this pyramid shaped crystalline rock with red symbols on the side that both matched the shade and smell of old blood."

I ask him if he has pictures or could send me a picture.

"Sadly, no. A friend of mine, I suppose you could call him a practitioner of natural Magick or more savage blood Magick a shaman of whatever I don't know but I wasn't able to harm him for whatever reason, gave me one and told me to carry it at all times. It kinda felt like a chain holding me to the ground inside a hurricane. It helped a lot."

I responded asking if he still has it, is it still protecting him.

"Idk if protection is the ideal terminology to use. In a way it did but at the same time no. It worked more like a catalyst for myself. Or one of those floatation devices you throw to drowning people. Gave me the ability to stand on my own."

In my experience, black has been used as protection & pyramid shaped crystals are used to focus energies, so I told him that & he says...

"Well whatever it was straight exploded the day I woke up being strangled by something."

I asked him to elaborate on strangled.

"Yeah. Just some kind of... figure was strangling me and holding me down around 3-4 am one night/morning. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Just started back accepting death. Crystal was on my nightstand my bed. It exploded. Roommate ran in there thinking a gun went off, lights came on, the entity vanished, and I've been on constant alert since."

More info on dark past includes abuse as a child that caused a very high pain tolerance which led sketchy family members to, essentially, use him as a guard dog by getting him addicted to drugs like meth which made him unstable and very violent to the point he couldn't feel pain. Sketchy family member also has him trained in fighting to make him a very effective weapon, but he's about six years removed from that life. At some point, in order to cope, he began dabbling in the darker magick, making deals with demons (Ambriel, Blisdon, & Adnachiel), near death encounters, and similar experiences until he witnessed what he can only describe as angels above his friends who he pulled from a bad wreck, this led to him removing himself from those beings & pursuing a different life. Now it's just the nightmares, still very strong, incredibly fast recovery time (like a decent sized cut healed in just a few hours where it should have been days), and shockingly quick reflexes/ability to absorb intense situations in seconds but he's a great guy and I want to help him.

Any advice?

#crystal healing #crystal witch #crystals #black crystal #witch #cosmic witch #witches #witchcraft #astrology witch #baby witch #beginner witch #cheap witchcraft #closet witch #cottage witch #domestic garden witch #closet witch altar #eclectic witch #grounded witch #hedge witch #kitchen witch #lunar witch #moon phases witchcraft #psychic witch #space witch #thrift witch #dark magic

[tipsycad147]

Lose your addictions with ice magick!

BY PIP DE BELFRY

We live in a world that’s becoming increasingly stressful, and it’s all too easy to seek solace in what are mainly unhealthy Life choices. Alcohol, drugs, whether prescription or “recreational”, food, smoking … The list goes on and on.

While no-one would ever say it’s easy to rid yourself of addictions (well, some do, but they’re usually the born again non-smokers or teetotalers, who can never understand how others are held in the vice-like grip of addiction), there are things you can use to help yourself get into a better place to try and defeat whatever has its hold on you.

I recently spoke with a lady whose partner was addicted to a “recreational” drug. This is what I advised her to do:

A whole lot of the energy behind a working comes from YOUR intent, so as you’ve taken it into your own hands and carried it out on your own, I would say that you couldn’t have done it any better! That really IS the biggie here, that you put a whole lot of intent into your conjure, and the multiverse will magnify it for you.

On the matter of your husbands meth addiction, there are workings you can do, but you have to bear in mind that however strong your intents are on this one, unless he is willing to change, you’re not likely to have a huge amount of success. He really needs to want to change, and then your workings will increase his positive actions. .

If you want to give it a try, this is what I would recommend. Ideally, you’ll need to get hold of some medication which contains pseudophrenine, which is a component of meth. You can get hold of this in sudafed 12 hour pressure/pain, sudafed triple action, or Aleve-D Sinus and Cold. You can get them from the pharmacy counter, but will probably have to ask for it as it is now recognised as containing the meth ingredient.

What you’re going to do is to crush a tablet and add it to some water. If you’re lucky enough to have collected some snow water, that would be ideal – just use as little water as you need, because then you have some stored away still if you need it later.

If you have access to some of his hair (like maybe getting some from his hairbrush?), or nail clippings, add those in too. Next, write his name on something as natural as you can find, an unbleached coffee filter paper is good. Also write your intent for him. Make sure that you pour all of that intent into it as you write it. Fold the paper as small as you can, folding away from you, as it’s something you want to send on its way.

Place your bits and pieces into an ice cube tray and freeze it. When it has frozen, take the cube out and wrap it in a pieces of aluminium foil, with the shiny side inwards, so it’s reflecting all of the power back into the ice cube. Then just keep that stored in your freezer.

As an extra to run alongside this working, you could also use a little candle magick. Use a blue candle, which is the colour for fighting addictions, and dress it with some begone oil. If you didn’t see this on the post I wrote for Doc recently, it really is the easiest thing to make. Just take a little carrier oil (I would use jojoba, as being a wax, it doesn’t go bad as quickly as other oils), and add in a few red chilli pepper flakes. Give it a good shake and it’s ready to go. It’s better if you can leave it to steep for a few days, so the power of the chilli gets into the oil.

Dress the candle going from the base towards the wick, again it’s something you want to get rid of, so you anoint it away from you. I would burn it for an hour or so every evening, and while you do it, call on whatever powers you believe in to help him in his fight against the addiction. Make sure that you have a clear mind and some quiet time to do this, so that you can concentrate solely on what you’re trying to achieve.

So that is one method that you can make use of – and simply adjust it to whatever your addiction is. At present, I’m trying to rid myself of the evil nicotine addiction by having placed some cigarette rolling papers, a couple of filters and even one hideous stinky cigarette butt into an ice cube, so I’ll keep you updated on how that one works out.

Another method that you can try is again based on sympathetic or “natural” magick. For this one, you will need:

1 black candle

1 white candle

Begone Oil

Piece of paper

Dove’s Blood Ink or a red pen

Lock of hair and or fingernail clippings

It’s best to carry out this working in the three nights prior to the New Moon, but if you need to do this working urgently, any time between the Full Moon and the New Moon is fine.

Again, if you are carrying out this working for someone else, it is always best to ensure that they are aware of your intentions and wish to change their behaviour. It is very rarely that unbinding spells (which is basically what an addiction breaking spell is a variation of) work without the willingness of the person you are trying to help, no matter how good or strong your intentions are.

So, to get on with this one – take your piece of paper, and write your intention on it as if it has already come to pass. Something along the lines of “I am free of my addiction to cigarettes and nicotine” or “I no longer have uncontrollable cravings for unhealthy foods”.

If you are doing this for a third person, you simply substitute their name, so maybe “Paul Joseph Roberts is sober and free of the desire for alcohol”

Take your paper, and tear it into seven, nine, eleven or thirteen pieces. Crumple each piece into a ball.The way to decide how many pieces you need to tear it into is gauged by how deep-seated the addiction is. For lesser examples, seven or nine is fine, but for a longer standing addiction, it would be better to go for the full thirteen.

Dress your candles with the Begone Oil, light them and place the crumpled papers by the black candle. As you do so, visualise your desired outcome, and burn the piece of paper closest to the black candle. When it is done, move the black candle slightly away from the white candle. Also, collect the ashes and keep them safely.

Repeat this working for as many nights as it takes to burn all of your pieces of paper, at which point the candles will be some distance apart. Re-place the candles if necessary, but remember to dress them again if you need to do this.

Gather together the nail clippings or lock of hair in a separate piece of paper, but keep them close to the candles.

When you have reached the end of the working, gather together all of the remains of your spell work (ashes and candle wax), and dispose of them. For older addictions, maybe bury them so that they are literally out of sight. For more recent addictions, or maybe for works of self-improvement, maybe cast them to the winds or into running waters.

Beating an addiction may well take a whole lunar cycle or longer, but now that as the moon waxes and wanes, your addiction is being brought to the surface and is being cast away, and its hold is being blown away by the winds.

So that’s a couple of methods that you can try. Let me know if you decide to give them a try, and if you have any other suggestions, just in case my frozen cigarette butt doesn’t remove the temptation!

https://pipdebelfry.com/addictions-ice-magick/

[equilibriumsend]

Yummy 0.o

#tweeker for life #meth and black magicks #equilibriumsend