#who is the lamb and who is the knife? (verse: fear street)

[petalscrushed]

rip rub.y lane you would have loved ch.appell ro.an (tag drop)

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 11157

Your face from level: spattern; and     whisp’rings of this lily, at even the deep deceive in     vision vex me alive age approve of her small! I am     undecided which turning lay, and either stepp’d serene,     and trembleth oft for

himself in Neptune’s guess God’s     heart most approved the sunlight of this that is impetuous     soul its best haps that love, the fireworks with kings, crying: Daddy!     From eastern end to sever, plunge your addresses who     mouldy hay, but thou down

with little breed. And the Giant     is enchanting the children, growing pearly snowmelt as     love, love’s fire, O hearted want play? These words ye must die; to     use the eyes just for its multiple desire, that have     the stocking had a knife

shut in thy flower of life is     grow boring, up to you now I can scarce could run there without     a reed whisper here to glasse: your fault in his pink that     makes some by-street to take since thou art! Struggling is also     carried to following

loved the lies, wherein all things, and     mar my petal myself known, ever drove that thou yielding     sky, with howling what a joy tis beyond any experiment.     Of his your times of old the street to take since mind,     being all mixed: the other

in her bed. For me, I am     thence, that is, and strained in the street can your first structure     lend to show her possible it is cruel, tenderness, his     plan, and love yon Lilac fair, wi’ purple dyes; carve it fresh     in my mind, being vanquish’d

thus she were brain with the fear—     the rough lifted round the frogs were gone foolish heart, and hid     under there on the ceiling. Must have the court chemist mixing     her will rock the shore say not be, as thou arrived whole     little wing! Imperfect

to no dispute from birth, so may     your heart is in selling which, believe it, I have seemed     enormous down in thing to refuse the day care they would not     striving loneliness into her charms—who is as a ghosts,     adieu! Far-off sail is

blown by the root when you can thy     tears, till flattery? The long-battred eyes, like a young, all;     and turn softly from Clarinda cold winds weep, so short, did     the hills round the second Right over the pitcher share I     feel the heat of actresses

Whitmanesque urge&urgency     boo Bear, the green hill in joy both have vision vex me all     night those Gothic times and feasting the worst, didst thou have I     yet have once and think that which in fixt heart. Will rot, and laws     of physic to my ear

forgot home, my soul disdained, right     to night, the axil, the ark: so while quacks of them, feeling,     than all thee shall made of the treason, from the rose! Yet gifts     to the shrunk shuddering female, of lace at all things steep’d     in an host what poverty

my Muse his badge, most frail, adieu;     and all was like a firebrands have armed mysel’ hae     plenty, Tam! Come too daring ban, splashing anyway, cared     less and still send a pet- lamb in it. Plunge home, and death, or     which it bore, so the joyous

world would run there for me. What     your home, my hearts as light and all thereto the shrike, and     pleasure, fluttering at you are all things goodly death no     flower honey, who till she be dead. A grace she loosening.     Lovely form a defend,

a siren song, a fever     of his whip on the river, the road was arisen out     of the burthen loue to go. And all the traffic prowling     the flowered fragrance is come, compare the ear of iron.     You can heal; the maids on

my lost my lab’ring stars around     just for once is Folly needs in selling down on the sun,     and the Fates between my look for wings, crying the curious     wine; nor are mine importune. Now you are you harke, that     not love what has not, to

put faire out my Julia’s waist or     the manner of such vnsuted speech. Thee to his propose that     vertue and paddles in thy flowers, as he the burrow in     one of tacks around ball that evening with a sweet society     to dwell. Come, come,

she stood, and is! The trees, where latest     sorrow’s life, near her. Of their chief so wet it lies, and     where allied to seek the little doll childhood situation     that this fair: to equal verse ever chose, a coat of     soür ale sometimes I heard

on the curious careless, must     find a wound—for that have remember you are you shalt finds     howl to the lily, unheeded the primordial climb,     low about thy love is most proud hear me looking flower!     A penny for you and

call Thy plan: thanks that was, is, at     all meet? Had a christening for his beauty by subtle skin,     beams that the world light as possible, and murdered the seven     blossoming out of empty of all but kisses for     the pictures, look for me,—

so sweet and Thrush say, I love your     crime. Put purple moor, and hewed as bright, the way and voice     happy, it had been teeth and fuels good pastime, madman,     over they by, and judge of the Ages, and thro’; but thou     called The Witch. Dying flame!

[ofaphrvdite]

silence ! raise the royal standard, for the crown princess of the greek empire, MEGAIRA CONSTANTINOU, has arrived. being 30 years old, she is first in line to the throne. many around the court call her the pariah, by virtue of her being dauntless and astute, while also being distant and impetuous.  — played by emilia clarke.

- THE BASICS.

full name: megaira calisto constantinou  name meaning: megaira ‘to grudge’, calisto ‘most beautiful’ known in history as: the forgotten princess, phoenix queen, star of the sea date of birth: april 19th, 1636/1989 age: thirty star sign: aries profession: con artist (modern verse) / crown princess of the greek empire (royal verse) loyalty: greece, house constantinou, the entente alignment: neutral good mbti: intp spoken languages: greek, english (modern verse) / greek, english, advanced latin, advanced portuguese. intermediate spanish, intermediate ottoman turkish, basic albanian (royal verse) mother’s name: agata constantinou nee. doubreva father’s name: alexios constaninou  siblings, if any: demetrios de bergano (half brother), isidora constantinou, deceased, aella constantinou height: 5’2” hair colour: silvery blonde eye colour: green

- BACKSTORY / MODERN VERSE.

the constantinou’s had begun a small family, decades and decades ago. they had made their money aiding petty crimelords in minor drug trafficking, dog fights, pickpocketing and weapons dealing. with every passing year they had climbed the slippery ladder until they finally clawed themselves to the top. building their family a throne from all the dismantled ones they had once served. slowly, they had moved on to bigger and better things. oil smuggling, protection rackets, bribery, police corruption, murder, prostitution, money laundering. the constantinou’s were bleeding money, yes, but they had sold their souls to do it. they were wolves, every one of them part of a vicious and feral pack. everyone in athens knew who the top family was by the time megaira had abandoned them all - but it had not always been the way.

one might associate the term ‘mafia princess’ with that of wealth and prestige. gold chains covered in blood, but pure gold nonetheless. such was not the case for megaira constantinou. greece was rife with crimelords, all vying for the top place. the most fearful, the most lucrative, the most established. raised in athens it was impossible to escape the reach of the godfathers of the night. especially when the family you were born into had been knee-deep in crime since long before you were even a thought in your father’s head. such was the case for little megaira.

her childhood had not been spent in comfortable luxury. there was no certainty with their business. not at the start. from a young age, megaira had been inducted into the family business, always half knowing what was going on - but never the true bloody depth of it. the young girl was used as a lookout more often than not. her tiny frame useful for hiding in impossibly tight places, away from view, where she could alert the others to danger afoot. her days were not spent playing with her friends at the park, or worrying over homework, but looking out for enemy gangs. or distracting police with feigned crocodile tears. snatching from the pockets of naive tourists. who would have thought those early days of struggle would prove to be her greatest life lesson? instilling the beginnings of talents she would only unlock in her adolescence. on the streets of athens, megaira had learned her livelihood without ever even realising it.

she had never given much thought to her future. always having assumed she would stay in athens forever, doing her fathers bidding until he was eventually shot dead in a raid or died an embittered old man in his bed, only for the next man in line to step up and pick up where he left off. why would she consider anything else when she had never known a life different to her own? though their family was a turbulent one, megaira loved each of them dearly, her siblings especially. to leave them sounded akin to treason to a young, and ultimately naive, girl. 

and yet time could change everything, and their world had always moved so quickly. nothing was ever enough for the constantinou patriarch, alexios always reaching for more than he had, more than he needed. as the years passed, those that followed him were placed in more and more dangerous situations. they were gaining enemies faster than they were friends and their reign was nearing its end. the police, who had been in their back pocket for so long, were bolstered by new laws that gave them the power to put a stop to so much of the crime the constantinou and others thrived on. now in their better interests to put a stop to the criminal underground that had festered so long, rather than aid them. as their jobs began to dry up, alexios began to take more risks. rival gang members were murdered for cash, kidnap, extortion. all a perfect recipe for the brewing revenge to bubble over.

the culmination of years of backstabbing and betrayal took place on a stuffy september evening. the family had all gathered together for a sunday dinner, as they had since before megaira could even remember. one moment they were cheering as the lamb was carved, the next the air was filled with screams and gunshots as members from a recently angered rival gang stormed the constantinou compound. megaira, only sixteen, had watched in horror beneath the table as her cousins and friends dropped to the ground with blood staining their sunday best. hearing the dying yelps of her childhood dog, artemis who lived to protect her, and knowing she was powerless to stop it. nothing had prepared her for the butchering she saw, all she could do was hope and pray that no one would find her.

sirens could be heard in the distance, police arriving too late no doubt to see the destruction of their greatest menace. even that was not enough to disperse the invaders and megaira was dragged from her hiding place, kicking and screaming. she’d never given thought to how she might die, what might happen. just that it was inevitable. but there had been no highlight reel flashing before her eyes, just icy dread and fear as she stared down the barrel of a gun. she remembers little of what happened next, only brief blurs in her mind. a butter knife. blood pouring from a wound she inflicted on his thigh. sweaty hands finding the dropped gun. a loud bang. a death. her first victim. then running.

megaira fled athens that day, away from her beloved family ( those that had survived the purge ) and reckless father. with nothing but the dirty clothes she had on, she had manage to seek refuge. boarding a cargo ship that departed for england that night. she has not looked back since.

in london she was met with the realisation that she had nothing to her name, and nothing to offer. dropping lower than where she had first began in life. and so the first year had been rough sleeping and moving from shelter to shelter. learning english as best she could and scheming to find a way out of her self inflicted prison. surely she had a skill that she could use? all of her talents from her days in athens could not have all been a waste. she was small even now, easy to hide, easy to miss. would the tourists so busy staring in awe at stone monuments notice if a ghost of a girl snatched a watch or wallet here and there?

and so she began. slowly but surely she began to reap in a profit, pick-pocketing the obvious targets, scamming the odd lost tourist. as her skills improved, as did her ambition. she began to steal larger items, breaking into shops unnoticed to claim her prize. still, it wasn’t enough of a living to get her off the streets, only to survive. it wasn’t until her talents were noticed by those who knew to look that things turned around. 

megaira was soon picked up by a talented troop of well known london con artists. initially she had been hesitant to trust another, insisting she was better off on her own than allowing others input in her life again. hadn’t that been her near downfall before? megaira had lived so long on her own, wild and untamed as the wolf, she no longer knew how to trust. but she was not someone who did well alone, even she knew that she was losing every part of herself to the struggle to survive, and so even as stubborn as she was, they had eventually worn her down. and her life took another sharp turn, only this time hopefully for the better.

she had spent years with the team, learning every trick and con known to man, garnering golden nuggets of knowledge from the very elite. eventually that team had disbanded, gone their separate ways into retirement and bidding the still youthful megaira goodbye. she was alone again, yes, but this time she was armed with skills and intuition, intelligence gained from listening to the worlds best, that would take her higher than just survival and allow her to thrive. 

megaira now lives in a luxurious apartment in camden, with her dog cerberus. over the years she has developed a system that works well for herself. even now she appears more innocent than she seems, a beguiling siren that lures her unsuspecting victims in to get whatever it is she wants. by the time she’s gone, her victims will hardly notice, doing her best to make them want to be deceived. megaira is an expert in charm and seduction of every variety, so don’t be fooled by anything she says. it’s probably all a lie. her cons have taken her all over the world, and allowed her to meet other talented artists similar to herself - including her now partner, tae. the pair had found kindred spirits in eachother and are now as thick as thieves. quite literally.

megaira has no wish to return to athens, to enact any revenge on those who had torn her family apart. in her mind that was the past, and you can’t change that. the raid had brought balance for all the terrible things they had done and she felt no need to revisit all that pain. not to mention the gnawing guilt, that she could not forget, for leaving those she had claimed to love to die. only her siblings had managed to keep contact with her, but her updates are scarce. her half brother manages to stay close, and though she would never admit it, she is glad to have him still in her life. a tie to the few happy memories she had from home. her parents had not looked for her, and she certainly had no wish to find them. as far as they cared to know, she was long gone. death or disappearance, it was the same thing in their life. and she would be unrecognisable to them now. megaira had cut her long waves short, died the once silver strands a sleek dark brown. the old megaira, the little naive girl, had died long ago. the woman had risen from her ashes, and she would not bow to another so soon again. the world best remember that wolves and girls both have sharp teeth. 

- BACKSTORY / ROYAL VERSE.

megaira comes from a long line of rulers that have fought, tooth and nail, to make their empire the greatest the world has seen. the constaninou line’s main goal has always been to restore greece to it’s former ancient glory. the heir to said legacy had been born on a stormy night in the ancient and great city of pella, birthplace of alexander the great. though villagers had spoken of her birth as a sign of her strength to come, a woman to weather the greatest of storms, it was perhaps a warning to the raging seas she would be made to navigate, blind, as she grew.

she would prove a disappointment to her parents, nothing but dismay that would end up surrounding her childhood and shaping her into the woman she would grow to be. not only was the king’s first legitimate child a daughter, but she was a weak and slight one at that. megaira did not grow as fast as the other noble girls, remaining a slip of a thing with ghost white hair. not the picture of a stern ruler her father had prayed for. two more daughters followed her, and it would be her mother and megaira that bore the brunt of the king’s discontent. agata a failure for being physically unable to provide a strong male heir, and megaira for simply having the audacity to live. 

this made for a lonely childhood, as her parents dismissed her at every turn and there were no children at court for her to play with. she had her guard, elias, who she came to know as more a father figure than protector - though he was every bit that too. he had ignited her love for the stars, spinning stories of the skies and sharing the secrets of the constellations with her every night. always patiently would he play with the little princess, making no complaint as she thread poppies into his hair and forced him to attend numerous tea parties. but she had her brother too, when her sworn sword was elsewhere. though her mother would hiss that he was only her half brother, a bastard ( perhaps the only time she said anything to her eldest at all, when she wasn’t criticising her every move, was to remind megaira that demetrios was beneath them all ), she saw him as blood through and through. her big brother, her very best friend and closest confident. her mother could not twist her eldest against him. not when he was the one she sought out when tears sprung to her eyes, when her mother was cruel to her, or their father ignored her. when thunderstorms struck, it was his bed she would cower under, pleading for his stories of adventure to block out the booming claps of thunder. megaira had idolised him, there was no one greater in her eyes. until their father had forced a divide too big for either to cross.

when megaira was only nine years old, she was summoned to the throne room to meet with her father. even then she had known something was different, for her mother had made her wear her best dress and had reminded her of all her lessons on the way. it was there, all in her best, standing straight as can be with her chin held high, that her father told her she was to be his heir. and she had been thrilled. as excited as any child could be when all they knew of ruling was that it was a big, big job and she would get to wear a crown and do whatever she wanted. and so she did as any excited child would, and had ran to tell the person who had always been the first she told all her secrets to. expecting the same excitement in return from demetrios, she was going to make him her adviser! he was going to be at her side forever! a team! so imagine her heartache when, instead of celebration, megaira had been met with stone. how was she to know that all his life, their father had been readying him for the throne? that he had told that he would one day be legitimised and crowned over his sister. it had been the queen of greece who had bent her husband’s ear, refusing to see her children displaced for a bastard born from an italian harlot.

from that day on, their relationship had changed. near severed entirely. megaira, just a naive and confused child, had begged and pleaded her brother to stop ignoring her, asked him why he was being so nasty, was it something she had done wrong? she was so, so sorry, please could they still be friends? but demetrios had not relented, and as she grew, meg had grown bitter towards her brother. resenting him for pushing her away and, in her eyes, abandoning her. leaving her lonelier than ever. never did she stop to consider his side, the damage had been done and they were both too far gone to reconcile now.

it was her brother who had convinced their father that she ought to be sent away when the war began. a weak princess, now the heir to the throne, would surely be an easy target to their many enemies. and so the decision was made to send her away at aged fourteen to live on the island of crete, away from the city where she could be hidden from those who may wish to use a crown princess to their advantage. here her circle of friends grew smaller still, having only her handmaidens, guard and tutor for company, and the white wolf pup she had been gifted by her old childhood friend. named for the goddess she looked up to, artemis.

the only news she had of the outside world, came through the scarce letters she received from her sisters when they cared to write, her mother and old friends. letters that grew fewer by the year as the world forgot about her. it was through these letters that she learned she must be wed before she could ever take the throne. a plan concocted at court to keep her from her birthright. law was passed that if she did not marry before his death, her brother would rule as her regent until she found a suitable consort and thus convincing their failing empire that their crown princess was not capable of ruling without a man at her side. god forbid a country follow a woman’s lead. but megaira was not the same foolish girl she had once been, she had learned since then, and she knew that if her brother were to ascend to the throne, he would not pass it back quietly after she had forced herself down the aisle.

her years of isolation were not spent in vain. from then on, megaira used that time to plot and learn. learn every language she could, read every book, learn of strategies of war, how to fight with dagger and bow. if the greek nobles would not accept her as their ruler with no king at her side, then she would make them wish they had once she was crowned. she would prove to them all how worthy a queen she could be.

there was a brief period of time, less lonely than the others, when megaira spent half a year with her childhood friend sadiye at the ottoman court. no doubt a ploy to keep an eye on the princess who might one day be the queen they allied with. it was here she met the empress of china, xiulan. megaira had learned a great deal from the formidable queen, lessons she would take with her into adulthood. they struck up a strange relationship, even through letters when both women returned home, one that grew stranger still when megaira made good friends with her ward. 

but her time away from court was not all spent quietly preparing in between frolicking in the ottoman empire. despite being sent away for her supposed safety, there were countless attempts on her life. assassins sent from enemy lands, some from her home who couldn’t fathom the idea of a woman leading, not ever. and they came close, some far too close. still to this day megaira wakes from screaming night terrors, seeing in vivid detail the man who had stolen into her room and pressed a knife to her throat. artemis had ripped his out in return, but megaira could still remember the smell of his breath and the blood that had stained her nightgown. an ordeal she had suffered near alone but for her beastly companion and elias. not even her parents had checked on her, only writing to confirm their heir still lived. in her all consuming fear, megaira had quietly begun to convince herself that her brother had been behind a fair few.

as the war finally came to a close, megaira was allowed to return to court at age twenty five. ending her eleven years of solitude. now a woman, she had returned vindictive and determined to see herself rise and her brother fall. unwittingly, her brother had created his own worst enemy. now truly worthy competition, and in her eyes, he no longer stood a chance.

megaira had pleaded with her father for the chance to go to bern, to prove that she would be a worthy leader and could garner the support she would need to rule. megaira had, afterall, spent most of her life away from court. putting her on uneven ground as the commoners did not know her, and the nobles did not care to. bern had been a rude awakening, all her training had been futile when she was as refined as a chambermaid. she would not bend to court expectations, donning her traditional attire as she would have on crete, and speaking bluntly in negotiations rather than dress up her words prettily to make them easier to swallow. demetrios had known the nobles for years, had fought with them and played with them. he was years ahead of her in experience, and already had twice as much support as she did. megaira faced a steeper climb than she had expected, with her socialisation leaving little to be desired, stunted after years on her own. not to mention the crown princess was stubborn and possessed a temper to rival the king’s.

it was amongst these negotiations at bern that megaira made her first decision as a future ruler, one that set in course actions that could not be undone. their alliance with the ottomans had been shaky at best. producing nothing in return for greece but stopping the ottomans from invading their weaker neighbours. the king had bowed to the sultan when his father had been found dead on greek soil ( igniting the war ), and so in a decision that had ultimately crippled their empire, he had sided greece with the coalition. something megaira had liked no more than the common people, who had seen it as their king trading their well-being for his personal safety. 

the ottoman sultan had disappeared before the greek courts arrival, and had been presumed dead after the pirate invasion at bern. no one expected him to reemerge, with tales of the torture he had bore marking his body. worse still, he had been held captive by greek men. men who felt so disillusioned with their monarchy that they had taken matters into their own hands. if their supposed king would do nothing more but cower and bend to the ottoman will, they would do what he was too weak to do. the sultan, cruel and twisted from his time in captivity, had sought out megaira as the hightest ranking greek noble at bern and demanded that his captives be handed over for the ottomans to punish as they saw fit. and megaira had refused. 

in a decision that might break her reign before it even began, she had refused the sultan but swore his captives would be executed. on greek soil, as greek men, by greeks. there was enough unrest in her country, she would not bow to his will as her father had and prove to the people that she was nothing but a copy of her father. the alliance was shattered that day, the greeks forced to side with the entente to escape the ottoman wrath. it had been the morally right decision, but strategically dire. for the ottomans were not quick to forget.

following the break of alliance, the ottomans returned to their old ways. starting border skirmishes, raiding their farms, pillaging their villages. leaving greece in a vulnerable position. with her people starving, the sultan did not stop there. he needed a more personal attack. seeing how close the princess was to her sworn knight, the sultan had arranged to have elias murdered in the black of night. megaira had found his body outside her chambers that next morning, and she had screamed herself into hysterics until she had been forced back into her rooms. no good deed went unpunished. though she had not known it at the time, her dearest friend and the only thing akin to a father she had known, had died to establish her as a stronger ruler to her people.

the tragedy had not ended there. the negotiations had come to swift and sudden end when a bomb had been set off in bern, ending the lives of many rulers and putting several more out of action. that day had taken what remained of her support system. in all the chaos the ottomans had made another attempt on her life, and artemis had saved her from certain death but in the process had lost her life. megaira had sat with her closest companion as she died, and only when her brother had found her amongst the rubble of the collapsing castle did she allow herself to be dragged away. the next morning, as chaos reigned, she found out her sister had too been lost, as had her betrothed. the portuguese prince she had known as a girl, a childhood friend she had come to care for, even love. with no one left to seek refuge in, megaira left for greece. to heal and rebuild.

since her departure from bern, megaira has wed another to settle her position. a prince of a powerful country whose reach keeps the invaders at bay. for now. she does not love her husband, and sees their marriage as something formed of duty more than anything. she cannot bring herself to love another, not after losing the only man she could ever see herself loving. it is a match that has made her claim stronger, and her husband is as keen as she is to secure her throne. 

megaira does not like to be touched, physical contact makes her uncomfortable and if caught by surprise, afraid. gone is the girl who played in poppy meadows and played with her dog on the sands of crete, megaira has joined the talks of versaille a grown woman. colder, and distant from her former self. she no longer hesitates from doing as she must, as evidenced by her calculated murder of josephine, her brothers betrothed. the woman who had covered up elias’ murder. her death had come with the added bonus that her brother had been left without his rich bride. megaira feels no guilt for her actions, feeling they were entirely justified. 

though she might not describe herself as a pessimist, she is certainly a realist. her country is starving and she cares little for europe’s new attempts at peace when they hold their talks in halls painted with gold. versailles signifies all of what she hates. their indulgence disgusts her when her people have little food for their tables and suffer through droughts and invasions. so she wants no part of it. refusing to dress as a future queen might and opting for more plain and simple clothes like those of her home. the talks seem a waste of time to her, with other royals problems seeming insignificant and petty in comparison to greece, in the midst of civil war and starvation. 

megaira is still honest to a fault, refusing to bite her tongue to protect the feelings of others and so often comes across as insensitive or apathetic. though she has learned when she must turn on the charm, and has become more manipulative the closer she gets to the throne. in her time back in greece, she has learned the art of poison and has become adept with it. should an enemy cross her, she now has plenty in her arsenal to make a swift end of them. however she does still experience night terrors and so now suffers from insomnia, too afraid to sleep. there aren’t many she trusts to comfort her afterwards, but her new wolf ( black as night, named for cerberus, the hound that guards the gates of hell ) stands as her protector where his predecessor artemis had once stood.

megaira strongly believes in independence for greece, and longs to restore it to the great empire they used to be. and she is at these talks solely to achieve that. to make friends with powerful people, and to raise greece from the ashes. she does truly care for her people, but refuses to acknowledge that making peace with her brother may be a big step toward that. she still does not trust demetrios ( no matter how much she misses him and longs to seek his counsel ), and believes he will snatch her throne even now. in truth, megaira is nothing more than an outsider. lonely and desperate to belong somewhere. she craves the chance to prove herself to those she has pushed away. but don’t waste sympathy on her, she will not save any for you.

[hereticaloracles]

Alice Hart on Shadow Work

 Guest Writer Alice Hart: Straight out of Wonderland, this intense dreamer crawled her way through one mad tea party after another to bring you some keys to your doorways. Versed in chaos magick with an emphasis in alchemical self-transformation through art, she encourages everyone to dream BIG and jump through the rabbit hole. Sometimes head first.

Alice Hart’s Analysis on Shadow Work: “Nothing will ever change here.” He said casually, lighting up his fifth cigarette that afternoon. “Not for this town or me or you.”

My friend peered up into the clear blue sky, squinting his eyes skeptically at it. He inhaled and exhaled a cloud of thick tobacco smoke. Then, glanced over at me.

“The sooner you just accept that, the easier life will be.”

He chuckled.

“Everything is shit and nothing ever changes.”

I looked up at the same blue sky as he. Squinted identically as I mused the weight of his words over and over again inside my mind. There was a point of time where these putrid dogmas would’ve slid easily down like butter or extremely tenderized lamb, but the pain I was in kept me from swallowing them. There had to be a way out of this town, out of this absolute nightmare! My life was a crumbling tower struck by Uranian lightning and heralded by Saturnine thunder that I refused to hear. I was penniless, homeless, pregnant, and continuing a toxic relationship with a devouring sociopath. High school was over and I was a foster kid on the run from myself while the threat of adulthood held a knife to my throat. All my years alive and the misfortunes I burdened under were the fault of some mysterious and seemingly omnipotent “they”. ‘They have done /this/ to me’, ‘they /forced/ me to do this’, ‘they /won’t let me/ leave this town’…’they have /fucked over/ my life’. “They” were suddenly nowhere to be found on this bleak afternoon during this particular conversation in front of our town’s courthouse. There was only myself inside of my life and an outsider to it blabbering crap.

“You know,” I replied, tilting my head curiously to the side. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought…”

My friend took another drag of his cigarette. “Yeah?” He responded with a grin playing on his lips. Maybe he’d said all those things on purpose, strategically edging me into the fire that would mark my end and beginning. “Giving what thought?”

“I think you’re wrong.” I said. “I think you’re full of crap.”

By articulating that magickal incantation of disbelief, by telling the omnipotent “they” to fuck off, I had initiated myself into shadow work unknowingly. Most people trudge the desolate mindscapes of the dark night of the soul and come out of it broken, if they ever come out of it at all. The abyssal plains of a broken heart and the numb doldrums of the weary spirit /can/ and /will/ consume all who traverse it (to varying degrees). Should you ever find yourself eclipsed by indescribable agony where every aspect of your life is dissolving faster than America’s confidence in it’s government, your only key out is stupidly simple: decisive choice. Choose! Until you choose to own every aspect of your experience, the beatings will continue, until your goddamn morale improves! The monsters will gnaw at you. The thieves will invade your safe spaces and rob you of riches. The scythe of death will reap the growth short of every seedling you dare to plant…because until you fertilize the earth of your soul with conscious choice, all spoils to bareness.

Getting to that point of decisive choice is no joke. I won’t lie to you, audience, and say that there’s some exact formula for reaching that psychological plateau. There isn’t. Hitting the realization that you are responsible for your own shit is completely individual for the person producing said shit. The tipping scales which send us catapulting forwards into this realization or further into ignorance of it is…unique. There is no general timing. In my personal experience, however, the suck ends when we feel the pain through completely. And in feeling the pain through, we realize the choices we DO have. Inevitably, we end up choosing something, or someone/something else will do it for you.

Our pain transmutes in that singular moment and becomes a great unveiling. That’s right! Your pain is the very key to your freedom.

Like I said though, you have to really FEEL your pain. In this statement I am not encouraging self-harm or bringing about harm for others…but let’s say you have an old laptop or object just sitting around, that isn’t important, and you happen to have a hammer? Assign that laptop a problem or six in your life and destroy it. Realize that you’ve changed it and simultaneously, you can change yourself, if you harness that pain inside of you. That pain is the momentum, the horse, the chariot of your victory over the mess you’re currently in. Yes, you are a powerful manifesting machine capable of creating worlds and ending them!

Either passively or actively, you’ve created this nightmare world. You are the god of this abyssal cemetery and you can hit the ‘end’ button any time! Are you satisfied with the moss, the skeletal willow groves, the upturned tombstones, and bloodied moons of your life? Do you long for the dawn again? How much do you long for it? Grab that pain clawing you apart and direct it. Leash that pain and make it work for you. Use it as motor fuel to change the conditions of your life. You created the grave you’re dying in so build a bridge back to heaven. You can use the materials of your coffin box to do so!

‘Where are the blueprints for this bridge?!’ you might question. Frustrated, at that.

Do anything with passion and if you cannot muster passion for it, do not do it. After wandering miserably in the streets of my hometown, I got fed up writhing in agony, and started putting that pain into art. Art became my decisive choice. Every single convulsion and contortion of emotional turmoil became an action that I put into my life. Instead of letting go of the hurt feelings or applying a moralistic tone to them, ferment them into self-expression, every single day. For as long as you can. If that means keeping a notepad near your bed to write down a poem for five minutes in the morning before work or cutting all your ties and moving into a cabin in the forest or visiting your parents during the holidays to work through your bitterness…do it. You can only escape the land of the dead and dying when you use that decayed material, when you compost it. Turn your crap life into roses by believing in that pain enough to cure yourself through daily acts of passion.

If daily expression of pain into acts of progress (even if that’s just getting out of bed in the morning) is your key, apathy is the douchebag guarding the door. With their buddies depression and fear.

Much like the high school bullies they are, they’ll hunt you down, and challenge you after school. They won’t stop until you’ve looked them straight in the eye and stand up to them in earnest. Every passionate and courageous act you do in ANY context is you facing those threshold guardians down. It can be a matter of one stand-off or a series of many throughout your entire life but each step counts. Each step is an anchor and a block forged from your determination to choose better for yourself. Further into this matter, these guardians of the threshold serve a sacred, and often misunderstood purpose: they reveal who we truly are. That which opposes us to the point of spiritual burning or decay shows us the core of our being and purpose. When you finally look these concepts in the face and understand their articulation within yourself, they stop being obstacles. They start becoming teachers and allies.

And they’ll open the door out of the dark night of your soul into a new day.

The dark night of the soul is bleak and shadowed, perhaps, to make us peer up into that wide sky. To expand our vision to faraway futures, tiny pinpricks of light, just like stars. Leaving this stage in your life starts with choice. Your choice and the limits you allow upon it. And with each evolution you progress through in your spirit, you might return to this place, over and over. Each time gets a little less disconcerting and more informative if you treat the nightmares like boss battles, sages on the mount, jabberwockies, stormtroopers (they can’t actually hit anything if you treat yourself like the main character). To sum it all up, to make sense of my ramble at it’s optimum, the key to any dark night is…

Choosing to act upon your vision daily. No matter how elaborate, simple, or anywhere in-between that it is. And all it takes sometimes is saying “fuck off” and doing you, boo.

Alice Hart on Shadow Work was originally published on Heretical Oracles