🔥 Is This Spell Working?

A Poetic Reflection on Ritual, Doubt, and Divine Remembrance

I woke in the night,
refreshed from a dream.
Not a nightmare.
Not a torment.
Just a clearing.
A breath.
A soft space.

Was my ceremony working?

Even after all the signs,
I still doubt.
Why?

I pulled on that thread,
and beneath all the years of shame—
beneath the silence of my childhood—
I found ritual.
I found magic.
I found the sacred work that had always been underneath.

I have doubted so much
because I have seen so much.
I trusted my inner voice
when the world begged me not to.
The trees told me to run,
and they kept me safe.
The people?
They brought me to others who hurt me.

But the deepest wound?
Family.
Saying “believe us”
as they carved silence into my bones.

I saw the split early:
magic and repression,
beauty and punishment,
the Divine Feminine
and her desecration.

Last night I said aloud—
“I’ve spent so much time healing shame,
I forgot who I was beneath it.”

This… is what I’m reclaiming now.

I had so much mental space yesterday,
it disoriented me.
Like silence after a long storm.

Was this spell working?

I woke again in the night,
asking that very question.
This morning,
Day Three of the rite,
I burned the papers.
I lit the bay leaves.
Each one a spell,
a line of truth,
a thread of remembrance.

I gathered bark from the fallen tree,
the one that mirrored
the collapse of so much in my life.
This tree is part of the spell.
This spell is working.
I will not doubt it anymore.

I lit the myrrh.
The frankincense.
I set the altar outside.
I watched the sun rise.
And the sun… spoke to me.

“Pull the thread more,” it said.

So I did.

OmniLens posted yesterday—
The Enochian Keys again.
He called a woman a Witch,
and she thanked him.

No shame.
No fear.

I gasped.
She carries no fear in that word.
Neither does he.

And I asked myself again—
What is a Witch?

Not the distorted version—
not the twisted tale told by fearful men.
But the truth.

A Witch is one who holds magic.
And I do.

I always have.

I buried it beneath layers of religion,
beneath echoes of
“You are wrong,”
“You are evil,”
“You must be saved.”

The screaming of the “chosen,”
the dogma of the damned.
I’ve heard it all.

But now?

I toss my spells to the fire.
I sing the childhood rhyme:
“Fire, fire burning higher,
making music like a choir…”

Why the pain?
Why the shame?

Because this world feared
what it could not control.
Because distortion was worshipped
while divinity was buried.

But I see it now.
I see the spell.
I see the split.
And I see through it.

The distortion will never name itself.
It will never apologize.
It will never see its own shadow.

But I will.
I do.
And I let it burn.

Let it all burn.

And in the ashes,
I will write new spells—
spells that remember.

Because this spell is working.

And I
am the one
who cast it.

Throw The Rag - Is This Spell Working?