People love to say that magick brings you closer to the divine. That it awakens power, connects you to your Will, and tunes you into your true path. And maybe it does. Maybe that’s all true.
But what they don’t say, what they never say, is that magick can also make you deeply, cosmically lonely.
Not in the way most people think. It’s not about being the weird one at the party, or having no one to talk to about banishing rituals or planetary hours. That’s surface-level alienation. I can handle that.
I’m talking about the kind of loneliness that comes when you start to see through everything.
You see the lies people live in. You see the scaffolding holding up society’s delusions. You see how much of the world runs on fear, on repetition, on inherited scripts. You see it, and you can’t unsee it. And suddenly, you’re not a part of it anymore.
You walk through the world like a ghost. You nod and smile and say the right words. But underneath, there’s this cold space where connection used to be. Because part of magick is deconstruction. Peeling away illusions. Burning masks. Dismantling all the ways you used to belong.
And when the masks are gone, who’s left? You. Just you. Alone with your Will, your pain, your strange and sacred fire.
The Path Is Narrow
They don’t tell you how narrow the path gets. Or how the deeper you go, the harder it is to bring anyone with you. People fall away. You grow apart. Sometimes they leave you. Sometimes you leave them.
Not out of cruelty. Just because they can’t hear what you hear now. They can’t stand the silence you’ve learned to live in. They want you to come back, be small, be soft, be who you were. But you can’t. You’ve touched something too vast.
Sometimes I try to reach back. To speak as a human being. To soften my edges. But part of me is always watching, always listening inward, to the voice of Will, the pull of the current. And that part does not compromise.
It makes intimacy hard. Relationships fragile. Small talk unbearable. Magick clears away illusion, but sometimes illusion is what kept you warm.
A Holy Kind of Isolation
And still. Still I walk the path. Still I return to the altar. Not because it comforts me. But because it’s mine.
The loneliness is real. But it’s not empty. It’s full of something else, something vast, ancient, and mercilessly honest. In that loneliness, I meet myself stripped of every mask. In that loneliness, I hear Nuit whisper:
“There is no bond that can unite the divided but love: all else is a curse.”
Love under Will, not love as attachment. Not love as comfort. Love as recognition, of yourself, of your star, of the terrifying freedom of existence.
Maybe that’s the cure for the loneliness. Not returning to the herd. But learning to love the silence. The abyss. The divine solitude of the star.
Maybe loneliness is part of the initiation.
Maybe it’s not a wound.
Maybe it’s a gate.
