A Cosmic Revenge

 

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“The Master of Magick” – for so he called himself and believed himself to be – smiled, and stretched his tired limbs. Outside, a nearly full moon glowed in the cold air of the early morning twilight of an English mid-Autumn day.

It had been a tiring night for this magickian – with his visualizations, his laughter, and the completion of his sigils. But he himself was pleased by his exertions. As many times before, he had allowed his imagination to triumph over his reality. He truly believed he was controlling events, through his curse and his magickal rites, as he truly believed in the power of his magick. He was laughing, smiling, trickster while his victims the bumbling, unknowing fools.

So it was that he left his Temple room, his sigils parchments and laid himself down on his bed in the sleeping room of his cottage. Outside, a few birds began their Dawn Chorus, as mist formed as if sucked from the very Earth by the slowly increasing light. The Master of Magick was soon asleep, dreaming of tremendous deeds he had done or would do. He was there, a new Merlin who stood unseen but nearby while his warrior followers fought their enemies in the Wildwood – a savage battle of spurting blood, severed limbs and many deaths. He was there, smiling, laughing, as he and his followers feasted their triumph…

His sleep was peaceful, and untroubled, as he himself was warm wrapped in his carefully chosen coverings. In his wakening hours, he did not – and would not until it was too late – feel around him a presence vastly more powerful than his own mind and his own fantasies. He did not, in his wakening hours or even in his fantasies, dreamt while awake or asleep, feel a presence far more demonic than he presumed his own magick to be. Had he felt this, he would have sensed the sometimes terrible awesome Becoming for which one living life-form was at best an experiment and at worst an inconvenience, a failure – even if, or particularly if, that life-form possessed consciousness and deemed itself advanced, powerful and a master of  ”magick”.

So it was that when this Master of Magick awoke, he was rested and at peace with himself, unaware of how trivial he was and how, in the end, his life would mean nothing because he had achieved nothing of any significance. There would be no self-awareness, no advancement beyond the illusions he lived with and strove hard to cultivate. There would be no sense of Becoming, no awareness of That which, and Those who, awaited beyond his world and which, and who, were the change, the very evolution of the cosmos and all life within it. Perhaps this particular Master of Magick would live into old age – but for what, and why? Insects sometimes live out their allotted span.

Such thoughts, however did not concern this Master of Magick. He himself did not know that there were no miracles, no divine or demonic manifestations; no great and mysterious secret; no cosmic Law to proclaim. The magick of what was, the magick of this Becoming, was just the advancement, the evolution, the exaltation, the becoming of the life in which this Being which was, this Becoming, manifested itself. Life itself – its change, its consciousness, its evolution toward something higher – was the magick, just as, in terms ordinary mortals might today understand, Satan was, is and will be the very cosmos itself – its Becoming, its life.

Thus, this Master of Magick could do nothing – his curses were without meaning. He could do nothing – nothing at all – against someone who was a manifestation of such a becoming and whose individual will was therefore only a manifestation of what was: the very becoming itself, the change toward something higher. What that someone did, or did not do, was done or not done because Satan himself – the very cosmos itself – willed it or did not will it. Only if this Master of Magick himself became such a manifestation – such a directed will, such a nexus to presence the essence – could he do something against such a person. But then, if he did so become such a manifestation, he would not do it anyway, because he would be them at best, and at worst, their Comrades, striving for the same ultimate and, to the majority, almost incomprehensible goal.

This riddle was the great Secret that his kind sought. Sometimes, one of them found it, but they seldom if ever understood it, even when they realized what they had stumbled upon. So it was that the life of this Master of Magick went on as it went on – as the day itself continued as it does, without any miraculous or even demonic manifestations, and without, it seemed, any “magick” at all.

The revenge of the cosmos would be the utter futility, the utter waste – in cosmic terms – of the delusional life of this “Master of Magick”.

65-37

 

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