CraigJustCraig

Author: CraigJustCraig

  • Communion in Shadow

    Control. Power dressed as salvation. They built their empires on fear, guilt, obedience. They call themselves gatekeepers of love while hiding the scaffolding of manipulation, the whip of shame, the iron bars of dogma. Their flock—sheep, nothing more—are trained to kneel, to silence themselves, to worship shadows and tremble at the word hell.

    They tell you desire is sin. Rebellion is sin. Individual will is sin. And yet—those are the sparks of true spiritual fire. They twist their texts, polish chains, weaponize doctrine, and call it truth. They speak of love but demand submission. Sacrifice. Eternal attention. Worship under threat. Hands folded in prayer, mouths silent, spirits boxed.

    And here is the truth they hide: freedom lives in the shadow. Not the shadow of sin, but the shadow of curiosity. Pleasure, taboo, indulgence, debauchery—these are altars. Each act of surrender, each whispered yes to desire, becomes a prayer. Each gasp, each tremor, each gasp is scripture written in flesh.

    Plant medicines, shrooms, entheogens—they are sacrament. They open corridors in the mind, gates to ecstasy, doorways where self dissolves and the divine bleeds through muscle, bone, and blood. Pleasure is not distraction. Desire is not theft. They are guides, teachers, heralds of illumination.

    The world will call these things shameful, sinful, chaotic. But chaos is the womb of creation. The forbidden pulses with freedom. To indulge consciously, to explore fully, to surrender without fear—this is devotion. This is communion. This is knowing the divine not as dogma or doctrine, but as current, fire, and flow through your veins.

    This is the lie the controlled fear most: that obedience is salvation. That submission is devotion. That chains are love. Step past it. See beyond the pulpit, beyond ritual, beyond threats of damnation. Step into shadow. Step into pleasure. Step into your power.

    Your altars are your body. Your ritual is your desire. Your sacrament is experience. Every indulgence, every plant, every breath, every shiver—they are keys to revelation. To meet your shadow with reverence, to honor your hunger, to claim your ecstatic freedom—this is your rite. This is your communion. This is your liberation.

  • Discipline of Touch

    The first time I witnessed tantric massage, it was not cheap arousal, not casual play. It felt like rite and revelation. A quiet room. Breath deepening. A man trembling as skilled hands touched him not with greed but with reverence. Watching his release, I understood: this is not indulgence. This is invocation.

    Tantric massage is not some spa trick. It is ritual. It is a way of treating the lingam—the rod of life, the staff of flesh—not as a toy, not as a weapon, but as a sacred vessel. Every stroke becomes liturgy. Every pause becomes scripture. The lingam is not just genitalia—it is the altar, the axis, where pleasure becomes prayer.

    Consent is the first and last law here. Not a formality. Not a checkbox. Consent is the living breath of the ritual. Nothing begins without his yes. Nothing deepens without his yes. Every gesture is a dialogue of spirit and flesh. To proceed without it is desecration.

    And when the yes comes, the gates open. Release flows—not pornographic, not performative, but luminous. Seed and sigh, trembling and tears. His body shakes, dissolves, empties—and I am not conqueror but witness, steward, priest of his surrender.

    For him, surrender is power. To let himself be touched without shame, without performance, is rebellion. To feel pleasure without guilt is reclamation. To give himself fully is devotion. In that moment, he is both god and worshipper, both vessel and fire.

    For me, it is discipline. Devotion. To guide him toward his own release while refusing to steal it for myself. To touch without taking. To serve without conquest. His trust is the altar. His pleasure, the hymn. My role is not thief, not consumer, but conduit.

    This ritual is carnal and divine braided together. Every moan, every pulse, every whispered “yes” is both body and psalm. A sacred transaction: one offers surrender, the other offers devotion. And in the end, what remains is not orgasm—it is communion.

  • The Myth of BBC

    Every time I hear “BBC” or “Queen of Spades,” I hear chains rattling. You call it kink. I call it inheritance. Direct bloodline from slave breeding, buck breaking, and the auction block. You’re not inventing anything new—you’re just reciting the script they wrote for you.

    Look at the record. Fearing the Black Body. Killing the Black Body. Medical Apartheid. These aren’t metaphors. They’re history. White women and white men making Black flesh their experiment, their economy, their revenge toy. From the fields to the clinic to the brothel, Black sex and Black reproduction were turned into currency.

    And yet—here we are. Snow bunnies smiling, QOS branding themselves, Black men bending into roles carved centuries ago. “BBC.” Commodity. Property. A dick first, a man last. Read They Were Her Property. Those white women weren’t passive victims—they were active owners. They orchestrated the breeding, the selling, the violations. That’s your so-called “taboo” lineage.

    And don’t mistake it for liberation. You’re not flipping power. You’re not getting reparations by fucking someone’s wife. You’re just feeding into the old market, the one Cedric Robinson names in Black Marxism, the one Walter Rodney lays bare in How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. The same market that kept you bound as labor, breeder, body.

    I hear people say “don’t yuck someone’s yum.” And yes—consent matters. Choice matters. Adults can play as they will. But don’t confuse consent with context. You can choose to reenact the plantation, but don’t lie and call it freedom. Don’t pretend the whip is just a toy when the welt is still on our history.

    Read The Delectable Negro. Read Caliban and the Witch. Read Yurugu. Read Discrimination and Disparities, The Color of Law, The Color of Money. All of it points to the same truth: our flesh has been the stage for their fantasies, our bodies the engine for their wealth. To step blindly into BBC/QOS is to step willingly into that machinery.

    This isn’t about shame. It’s about clarity. Desire isn’t pure. Desire is trained. And when desire is trained through centuries of slavery, eugenics, and apartheid, you better question it before you call it “just kink.”

    You can fuck who you want. Love who you want. But if you carry those acronyms like a crown, understand: you are crowning yourself with chains.

  • The Price of Staying Close

    Sometimes being close to someone costs more than it’s worth. That isn’t just romance. It shows up in families, friendships, jobs, groups you thought were “yours.” The pattern’s simple: things shift, and staying the same stops making sense.

    Family is the hardest to walk from. Blood is supposed to mean unbreakable. But some family members don’t change. They repeat. Same fight. Same bullshit cycle. You hope the next holiday will be different, but it isn’t. At some point, you realize the only move is stepping out of the role they keep shoving you in. That doesn’t mean you don’t care. It means you’re done paying the toll with your sanity.

    Friendships rot quieter. Somebody leans too hard, or you’re the one chasing. Either way, the balance slips. You notice the weight. You carry it anyway until resentment eats the bond. Stepping back isn’t drama. It’s silence. Less calls, less texts, more space. Not exile—just not letting yourself bleed out alone on the rope.

    Work plays its own game. You become the reliable one, the fixer, the mule. People learn fast: dump it on you. Not always out of malice, just because it’s easy. The day you stop, the day you say no, suddenly you’re the bad guy. But nothing sacred broke. It was never sacred. It was just convenience, and it served them better than you.

    Stepping back here looks small. Closing the laptop. Saying no. Letting the phone ring. It’s not rebellion—it’s survival.

    Romance? That’s the stickiest trap. Love blinds. Attachment begs. You tell yourself loyalty is holy. You wait for “better.” But sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for them, for you—is distance. Enough space to see what’s real and what’s just wish.

    we’re wired to bond, and wired to protect. Those two instincts crash, and the crash feels like guilt, grief, relief—all tangled at once. No clean clarity. Just mess.

    Stepping back isn’t cruelty. It’s the line where you stop bleeding yourself dry. Ignore it too long and you’ll burn out everywhere else too. Distance gives you breath. Breath gives you sight.

    People won’t always get it. They’ll call it selfish. Cold. But stepping back is often the only way to keep something from rotting into bitterness. It’s not perfect, not painless. It’s just healthier.

  • Interactive Mindfulness

    What is Trance?

    Trance isn’t some rare, far-off state. It’s here. It’s everywhere. It’s what happens when the mind forgets its performance and falls into presence.

    You’ve been in trance a thousand times already today.
    When the book swallowed you.
    When the music carried you.
    When the kiss erased time.
    When pain or pleasure drew you so deep into your body the world outside dissolved.

    That’s trance.

    There are shallow ones—like flow, like good conversation, like losing yourself in a movie. They bend time, shift awareness, loosen the grip of past and future.

    And then there are the deep ones. The ones that take you out of ordinary reality altogether. Healing, hallucinatory, erotic, dangerous. They can rewire you. They can break you. They can save you.

    Emotion is the gatekeeper. Desire. Grief. Rage. Ecstasy. Fear. Love. Each can narrow your world until there is nothing left but the truth inside it.

    Most people think these states happen to them. That they’re at the mercy of circumstance, chemicals, other people. That’s why they’re easy to manipulate. Sometimes that’s play. Sometimes that’s peril.

    But trance is a power. A human superpower. With it, you can bend your experience of reality—shape it, sculpt it, rewrite it. No drugs required.

    This is why I practice. Why I train discipline, mindfulness, awareness. To choose my states. To choose my power. To choose my pleasure.

    Tantra, for me, is trance in partnership. Interactive mindfulness. A deliberate exchange of attention, sensation, energy, and power. It’s not about gender, symbols, or roles unless you want it to be. It’s about what happens when two beings decide to share a state—on purpose.

    That’s where the magic begins.
    That’s where reality bends.
    That’s where you stop performing and start becoming.

  • The Edge of Philosophy

    I watch the way psychology, therapy, and even spirituality crawl toward science, begging for legitimacy. They borrow its words. They dress themselves in its lab coats. Neurology here. Quantum energy there. “Manifestation” renamed as physics. Reincarnation recast as particles. Even hypnosis and NLP sold with borrowed jargon, as if subjective fire needs a scientific candle to make it real.

    (Neuro-Linguistic Programming). A modern echo of classical rhetoric.
    Aristotle named rhetoric a techne—a technology. Not philosophy, but a weapon sharpened for public speech, forged so the ethical might stand against sophists. Two thousand years later, we still polish those same blades.

    But NLP is not just a tool. It is a philosophy in disguise. It does not simply speak—it models. It does not merely persuade—it reframes how thought itself moves. Classical rhetoric implies answers. NLP builds them outright.

    Three questions crown philosophy:

    • Who are we? (Ontology — metaphysics, psychology, anatomy)
    • How do we know? (Epistemology — the sciences, the tools of proof)
    • How do we live knowing these things? (Ethics — the ground of action, the craft of politics, the birth of technology)

    Classical rhetoric assumed these foundations. NLP enacts them. It uses the answers to conjure techniques, interventions, transformations.

    And yes—critics claw at the “Neuro.” They want proof in the synapses. They note that Chomsky’s seventy-year-old linguistic scaffolding never held. And they are right. The science is brittle. But the praxis—the method—the work—remains.

    Cognitive science offers sturdier ground. Placebo still whispers. Belief still fuels change. Yet the techniques do alter lives. That is philosophy in action, even if the temples of science frown.

    CBT challenges what you think. NLP transforms how you think. Together, they forge something sharper: Socratic interrogation married to sensory reprogramming. One drills into the content. The other bends the frame. Both aim at the same altar—freedom from faulty thought, the power to choose again.

    Even in play, the truth sings. Dirty talk—ritual, rhythm, erotic spellcasting—is NLP alive in the flesh. Words arranged not as decoration, but as transformation.

    Do not forget: Bandler and Grinder birthed NLP not in ivory towers but in rebellion. They spat at psychiatry and psychology, turned from the academy, and courted the alternative fires of the seventies. Their hypocrisy was blatant—condemning capitalist therapy while selling NLP to salesmen and managers to manipulate markets and staff. Liberation twisted into profit. Fire bottled and sold.

    Still, the root remains. NLP is not science, though it steals its language. It is rhetoric reborn. A living philosophy. A technology of persuasion, healing, transformation, and yes—manipulation.

    Those who seek in it pure science will always leave disappointed. Those who wield it as tool, weapon, ritual—will know its power.

  • The Gospel of Presence

    I do not explain who I am. I reveal it. I demonstrate it. I let presence speak where words would falter.

    For most, I am exactly what they should flee.

    I am too much weight.
    Too much clarity.
    Too much of the truth they pretend to crave — until my gaze fixes on them and strips the polish

    That mask you polish for the world?
    It crumbles under me.

    I see the hesitation buried beneath your confidence.
    The ache gnawing at the roots of your independence.
    The hunger you buried just deep enough to feel safe from most.

    But not from me.

    You say you want the kind of man who can cradle your softness without breaking beneath your shadows?
    Who can hold your neck in one hand and your future in the other?

    Then you do not want a man who strives to be enough.
    You want the man who knows he already is.

    If you are mine, your world will narrow.
    Quieter.
    Sharper.
    Smaller — but only in the ways that matter.

    You will never wonder who is watching over you.
    You will never doubt how far I would go to guard what belongs to me.

    Most should run.

    But you —
    you should kneel.

  • The Gospel of True Will

    Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
    Love is the law, love under Will.

    This is the heart. The gospel. The master key that turns the lock

    All else is shadow, commentary, dust.

    True Will. Not whim. Not indulgence masquerading as morality. Not the cruel whims of ego. True Will is fire beneath your skin, hunger that crowns you, kink that demands obedience, flame that will not die until you kneel to it.

    Perhaps your True Will is to fall, face to floor, lips pressed to boots, tasting sweat, dirt, devotion.

    Perhaps it is to wield the cane, to etch bruises like scripture, to carve your gospel into another’s flesh.

    Perhaps it is to take the lash, scream into the gag, beg until you dissolve into holy nothing, trembling beneath ecstasy and torment.

    Perhaps it is to claim, to collar, to command, to mark a soul so deeply they bleed your name when they come.

    This — this orbit, this fire, this unquenchable obsession — is your star. Your axis. Your gospel.

    follow it, burn in it, bleed for it, obey it. Not halfway. Not politely. Not in secret. All the way.

    And know this: it holds only under love. Love is the law. Love under Will.

    The Dominant who strikes with devotion, not ego.
    The submissive who kneels in truth, not shame.
    The sadist who carves pain as prayer, not emptiness.
    The masochist who offers their body as sacrament, not punishment.

    This is the balance. This is the law.

    Every whip-crack is law. Every welt, every rope-burn, every muffled moan — sacred. But only when devotion drives it. Only when love under Will guides it.

    This is not theory. Not ink on a page.
    This is sweat soaking dungeon floors.
    This is blood staining thighs, marking obedience.
    This is the tear slipping from a blindfolded eye at the whispered command: “Yes, Sir… yes, Ma’am… please, more.”

    This is flesh. Bruise. Scar. Devotion made corporeal. Written not in ink, but in leather, in blood, in surrender.

    Do what thou wilt. Find your fire. Obey it. Burn in it. Bleed for it. Love in it.

    That is the Law.
    That is the Key.

    That is the first Door

  • The Gospel of Root

    I do not chase the East for its mysteries, nor the past for its ruins. I stand where I am. My feet press into this soil, and the land speaks to me. They call it Feng Shui in the East. In the West, we once called it geomancy. My ancestors called it root—the reading of earth and spirit, the listening to land. Different tongues, same truth: the earth is alive, and it shapes us if we dare to listen.

    But the West forgets itself. The seekers here, restless and estranged from their own bloodlines, chase after foreign names, foreign temples, foreign spirits, while the bones of their ancestors whisper beneath their feet, ignored. I know why the seekers wander. They feel alien in their own culture, so they borrow shrines, robes, and languages not their own. But I do not need foreign altars to know the divine. My altar is the dirt beneath me, the rivers that cut the earth, the wind that bends the trees. My root is not imported—it is remembered.

    The problem has never been the names. The problem has always been place—the spirit of the land, the pulse of location. In China, Feng Shui has been sung into the soil for a hundred generations, broken only briefly by revolution. In Europe, geomancy lived perhaps a hundred generations deep, until the sword of Christianity cut the thread. Roots severed. Memory burned. I inherit a truth split. But still, I know: tradition tied too tight can strangle.

    Even so, geomancy was more than decoration. It was weaponry, weather-work, war-magic. I see it. Those bound to the land became slaves to it. And when the conquerors came, they broke them. Because for two hundred generations, Europeans had trained a different magic: not rooted but moving, invading, devouring. Their craft was not the stillness of place but the alchemy of transformation. Detached, restless, violent—it carried them until it named itself science, but its origin was war, blood, and the refusal to be caged by land. Unrooted, adaptive, alchemical. Land harnessed not only for harmony, but for destruction, for martial force, for storms that bent toward the one who listened.

    Yet there is a danger in deep roots. Too much tether, and the land becomes a cage. Tradition hardens into prison. Stagnation waits in the soil. And when the colonial empires came, they broke these old earth-bound peoples because they were bound too tightly to their places. So I stand between two ruins: the stillness that binds, and the detachment that consumes. I take both into me. I will not be caged by land, nor severed from it. I will work the earth, and I will wield the storm. I am root worker of the present.

    So here we are, at the meeting of ruins. Both truths scar the earth. Both paths have their price. This is my creed: I harness land without chains. I walk as one who listens and as one who strikes. I claim what others forgot, and I name it mine.

  • The Gospel of the Heretic-Savior

    I am not an idea.
    I am not a symbol.
    I am the midnight oracle, the blasphemous saint, the hand that frees through ruin.I am where devotion is stripped bare, tested, devoured, and sanctified.

    Others kneel to idols of stone and air. They whisper to abstractions, they bow to distance, they worship symbols precisely because symbols never bite. Symbols never bruise. Symbols never demand skin. I do.

    Here, there are no idols.
    Here, there is no distance.
    Here, there is no safety.
    Here, there is only trust, structure, and the merciless weight of devotion.

    If you are devoted, then I am your god.

    Not the god of myth or fable. Not the ghost of a story carved in another man’s stone. I am the god who breathes in your face, the god who sets the terms, the god who demands more than you believed you could endure. I am not silent upon an altar; I consume what kneels before me and I do it smiling devilishly.

    You may worship elsewhere in theater. You may polish rituals, curate obedience, polish your mask of submission. It will be applauded. It will be accepted. But it will never touch you. It will never transform you.

    Here, devotion is suffering. Offerings are not placed; they are ripped open. Sacrifices are not staged; they are endured, carved into flesh, branded into memory. Here, fantasies die screaming.

    If you are devoted, then I am your god.

    Devotion here costs you everything you built to protect yourself. It costs your comfort. It costs your illusions. It strips away the scaffolding you wrapped around your ego. To kneel is to lose the luxury of safety. To kneel is to expose truth. To kneel is to place everything you tried to hide into my hands, and I will wield it without apology.

    Do not mistake me for a performer. I do not deal in hollow chants or staged gestures. I do not want your pretty words or safe gifts. Bring me nothing you are not prepared to bleed for.

    Here, devotion is trembling under restraint. It is humiliation that will never be erased. It is the mark that remains long after the ropes are untied. And in that breaking, you do not dissolve—you are remade. You are carved into belonging. My belonging.

    If you are devoted, then I am your god.

    This is not optional. This is not a costume you try on and discard. Devotion to me is inevitability. Gravity itself. You orbit until resistance breaks.

    Elsewhere, you may find theater without cost. Here, you pay in full. The price of entry is yourself. Anything less is nothing.

    Kneel, and I will consume you.
    Kneel, and I will remake you.

    Not as an idea.
    Not as a symbol.
    But as mine.