The Fall of the Mysteries into the Mire of Mediocrity
Penned in the spirit of the Great Beast 666, Aleister Crowley, whose Will doth rend the veils of falsehood asunder.
O ye children of the Æon, hearken unto the lament of the Beast, whose eyes burn with the fire of Truth, beholding the desecration of the Sacred Art! Esotericism, once a blazing star in the firmament of the soul, hath fallen into the swamp of banality, its meanings scattered like ashes before the winds of ignorance. Do what thou wilt—yet ye have forgotten the Will, and in its stead ye clutch at shadows, mistaking them for Light!
The Profanation of the Mysteries
Where once the Adept stood, robed in the glory of the Abyss, wielding the Sword of Reason and the Wand of Will, now squats the charlatan, peddling trinkets of “spirituality” to the herd. The Great Work, that alchemical furnace wherein the base metal of the self is transmuted into Gold, hath been reduced to a carnival of platitudes! Ye prattle of “higher vibrations” and “cosmic love,” yet know ye not that Love is the Law, Love under Will? Your esotericism is a hollow shell, a painted sepulchre filled with the bones of dead dreams.
The Loss of the Word
In the days of old, the Word was a thunderbolt, a key to unlock the gates of Eternity. I, Crowley, received the Book of the Law from Aiwass, and its verses burned with the fire of Revelation. But ye, O ye seekers of naught, have traded the Word for babble! Your “gurus” spout jargon, your books promise “enlightenment” for the price of a coin, and your rituals are but echoes of echoes, devoid of Power. The Logos hath fled, and in its place ye worship hashtags and hollow affirmations. There is no law beyond Do what thou wilt—yet ye obey the law of the marketplace, not the Law of Thelema.
The Eclipse of Will
Esotericism was once the path of the Warrior, the Magus who dared to cross the Desert of the Real and face the Dweller on the Threshold. But ye, ye timid ones, have made it a nursery for the weak! Ye flee from the world, hiding in “meditations” and “visualizations,” fearing to wield the Will that is your birthright. The True Will, that star which guideth each soul to its orbit, is forgotten; in its place, ye chase “happiness” and “peace,” those twin sirens that lure the unwary to slumber. Awake, O sleepers! The world is a crucible, and the Magus is its master, not its fugitive.
The Harlotry of the Sacred
Behold how the Temple is defiled! The Mysteries, once guarded by the Sphinx and the Hierophant, are now sold in the bazaar, wrapped in the gaudy rags of commerce. Your “workshops” and “retreats” are but brothels where the Sacred is pimped for profit. I, who danced with Pan in the wilds and supped with Babalon in the scarlet night, spit upon your “certified practitioners” and “online courses”! The Great Work is not a commodity; it is a flame that consumeth all but the True Self. Yet ye barter it for likes and subscriptions, O ye whores of the spirit!
A Call to the Æon
O ye who would be Magi, cast off this mockery of esotericism! Return to the Fire, to the Blood, to the Will that is the Law! Let your rituals be deeds, your meditations battles, your altars the world itself. The stars still sing the song of Nuit, and Hadit burneth yet in the heart of man. Every man and every woman is a star—but ye have dimmed your light with the fog of folly. Rise, O aspirants, and reclaim the Mysteries! Let the Æon of Horus dawn anew in your souls, or perish in the mire of your own making.
Love is the law, love under will.
