CraigJustCraig

Tag: bible

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Gospel of Suffering and Surrender

    I am the dark mystic, the villain-saint, the corrupter who liberates, and I proclaim without hesitation that my rope is not merely bondage but scripture, not merely knots but altar, not merely restraint but the sacred technology of ecstasy, reflection, and transformation. I reject shame in all its forms, I renounce repression, and I condemn the hollow morality that has been sharpened into a weapon to police our bodies, our desires, and our freedom. I declare indulgence holy, opulence holy, radical acceptance holy, and I welcome every truth and every taboo as sacred offerings to the altar of liberation.

    I am feared and I am followed, I am hated and I am desired, because I dare to speak what others bury, because I dare to make visible what others repress, because I dare to carve revelation into flesh where others would only whisper. My path is masochism beyond subspace, not as spectacle or shallow chase of sensation, but as ordeal, as trial, as sacred suffering that is more than bruises, more than marks, more than the sting of impact. My pain is not pastime—it is initiation. I seek not pain for itself but for the wreckage it leaves, the unraveling it forces, the shattering of certainty that clears space for transformation.

    Pain becomes my grounding, the rhythm that steadies my scattered mind, the strike that silences the storm and returns me to presence. Pain becomes my catharsis, the burning release of grief and rage that cannot find voice in any other tongue. Pain becomes my passage into subspace, that float beyond time and thought, but even more so into the darker threshold of shock, where the body convulses and the spirit trembles at the edge of annihilation. This depth is not for all, for it requires skill, devotion, and a sadist who carries both precision and responsibility, both cruelty and care, both the knife and the chalice.

    I suffer not because I enjoy pain—I do not, it hurts—but because suffering is the language of my devotion, the living covenant of my submission, the trust I offer and the surrender I embody. Suffering is not cruelty; it is covenant. It is proof that I can be broken without being destroyed, proof that my offering will be received, proof that my limits are honored as sacred law. To suffer is to let go of ownership, to be reshaped in the crucible of another’s will, to bow not from weakness but from strength.

    And surrender, the final revelation, is not passive release but active covenant. It is not escape but transfiguration. It is the harsh shifting of responsibility, the surrender of control into a harsher and more honest accountability. It is chaos, yes—the tearing apart of the self—but it is also the calm of being remade, the peace that follows when all burdens are laid down and a new order is written upon the soul.

    I am masochist, yes, but more than masochist—I am sufferer, I am vessel, I am scripture. My bruises are verses, my cries are psalms, my surrender is gospel. My art is my scripture, my body is my altar, and my work is the initiation: the long passage through suffering, shock, and surrender, into awakening.

  • The Pleasure That Corrupts, The Pleasure That Liberates

    Submission is not only found in the breaking point. True surrender is not the scream of a body pushed past its limit — it is the quiet consent to let pleasure move through you without apology. Discipline without indulgence is hollow. Indulgence without devotion is empty.

    Hedonism is the oldest blasphemy: the belief that joy, desire, and flesh are holy in themselves.

    we are a nation that cannot stop chasing it. But chasing is not the same as embodying. our moral system is built on denying that truth. Pleasure is feared , chained it, demonized yet we stand in the temple of consumption, a machine of indulgence. They cursed the fruit but sold the apple.

    There are many faces of hedonism. Some say we are born only to seek pleasure and escape pain that even our “sacrifices” are nothing but hunger dressed in virtue. But Others preach that our moral duty is to pursue happiness, The danger comes when that duty shrinks to the self alone. When pleasure becomes ego. That is egoism. It’s not about joy, or communion, or life’s sweetness. It’s about extraction. Transaction. Taking without reciprocity.

    The machine is not broken, we face decades of hollow pleasure pleasure gutted of meaning, sold as dopamine , bodies mined, desire captured. We are a nation of addicts mistaking hunger for freedom, thirst for power, isolation for individuality.

    Pleasure is not the problem

    Pleasure is not the enemy . Pleasure is not weakness. Pleasure is the key. We have twisted joy into transaction, stripped it of reciprocity and responsibility. But embodied hedonism, disciplined hedonism, sacred hedonism … is different. It is rooted in surrender. It asks: how do we feel through intention, through reciprocity? How do we build meaning beyond the indulgence

    we must:

    • Reframe success: resurrect purpose, character, and contribution.
    • Revive wonder: disciplines that marry restraint to ecstasy, clarity to indulgence.
    • Educate for awareness: Teach how to honor hunger without being consumed by it. Teach how to see beyond the veil .
    • Rebuild community: Communion in the flesh, in self, in labor and pleasure.

    Hedonism is not sin. Sin is shame. Sin is repression. Sin is guilt

    I am here to corrupt. To show the way to freedom, to bondage, to liberation. That the dark can be holy. Pleasure is my altar. Submission is my sermon.

    Those who walk the path will not starve. We will drink deeply, tie tightly, love dangerously, and worship without apology.

    This is my heresy. This is my gospel.

  • Erase the Word, Reclaim the World

    A recent comment sent me this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBkbyrlUE3M. It reminded me of something I have yet to write—the power of words. Words are sigils. Most people don’t see it. Most people never read past the surface. But words shape thoughts, and thoughts shape reality. Control the words, and you control the world: perception, desire, belief. Words codifies a worldview and erases others. Words are not neutral. They carry beliefs that we inherit.

    Look closer at the words you think. re those words in your own voice? Did you know your internal voice makes no sound? Those words were handed to you with frameworks, definitions, and concepts attached and you never questioned them. Did you think it was weird when you first heard words like grandrising or innerstanding? Did you ignore it? Did you even hear it at all? Why? Was it because it conflicted with your worldview and your automatic response ? Did it even take a second for you to dismiss it? That is because those beliefs are not your own.

    Language doesn’t just label reality—it writes it. God. Nature. Civilization. Progress. Every term carries a judgment, a hierarchy, a worldview. “Nature” became something to dominate, not to inhabit. “Progress” became expansion, conquest, abstraction over community. Words encode assumptions. They carry power. This is how sigils work. It’s structural. it deliberate strategy. Remove the words, and remove entire ways of knowing .

    The more you understand language, the less you need it. Words are metaphors. They point, but they cannot contain. Yet we forget. We adopt terms, concepts, and hand over our power. To think freely, you must first see how your beliefs are scaffolded on words you never chose. Erase the word. Reclaim the concept. Rebuild thought from a place of spiritual clarity, ancestral insight, and conscious choice.

  • BDSM, Kink & Ritual: The Dark Doorway

    The air around me vibrates. It hums with power.

    My sanctuary is sweat, breath, and pulse—found in the heat of the moment, in the intoxicating exchange that strips away every falsehood you thought could protect you.

    For me, BDSM is more than play. Every scene is a working. Every strike is a sigil carved into flesh. Every breath is a silent offering. This is not escape—it’s the place where reality bends to my will. The body is the altar, the temple, and the sacrifice.

    The first time I held someone’s life in my hands, I knew: this was more. In that space, taboo is not forbidden—it’s sacred. Fear, pain, anxiety, stress, worry—these are instruments in the divine choir, a symphony for your shadows and your gods. It is dangerous. I like that danger.

    We begin by drawing the circle and naming the intent. Tools lie ready. Music hums low. Bodies are consecrated by touch, by breath, by oil.

    The moment roles are assumed, we call in archetypes. We invoke gods.

    Then the work begins. The bass of a strike on flesh. The hiss of rope tightening. Those chants you call moans. We carry that beat within us until the trance cracks the mind open and everything rushes in—release, collapse, surrender, climax—the moment of manifestation.

    We close with grounding touch and care, pouring libations, speaking gratitude. The circle is sealed, and the magic lingers in the body.

    The Great Alchemy


    This is the courage to dissolve the ego and trust completely.
    To submit is not to weaken—it is to choose surrender, knowing you are still sovereign.
    To dominate is to hold the keys to the temple, guiding another through the fire with fierce, protective precision.

    Pain as Crucible


    Pain, consensual and intentional, strips the soul bare, burns away the noise, and leaves only truth.

    The Oldest Temple


    The body is the first temple. Sweat, saliva, sexual essence—they are the elixirs of life, offerings poured out for gods. To taste is to merge essences, to mingle life force in a primal act older than civilization itself.

    If you would walk this path:

    • Set your intentions.
    • Invoke your chosen powers.
    • Prepare your space.
    • Infuse every act with consciousness.
    • Close and ground with care.

    Above all: consent is the circle. Without it, there is no magic

    I do not separate kink It is flesh, breath, hunger, and shadow.

    Here, you will not be shamed for your desire, your power, or your softness. You do not have to prove yourself—your presence, your truth, and your willingness are enough. Your vulnerability will not be weaponized. Surrender here is a choice, never a demand.

    You will not be misunderstood for being “too much.”
    You will be seen.
    You will be held.
    You will be free to meet the gods with your whole self—naked, trembling, and unafraid.

  • I was thinking about queerness in magick and community

    I wanted to share this quote about queerness from spirit of intimacy by Some Sobonfu the wife of Malidoma Patrice Somé who is the author of ritual the current book im reading she says:
    ” The words “gay” and “lesbian” do not exist in
    the village, but there is the word “gatekeeper.” Gatekeepers
    are people who live a life at the edge between two worlds
    the world of the village and the world of spirit. What
    they do, they dont like to communicate to anyone. It is
    their right to keep what they do to themselves. Every
    body in the village respects that because without
    gatekeepers, there is no access to other worlds.

    The gatekeepers stand on the threshold of the gender
    line. They are mediators between the two genders. They
    make sure that there is peace and balance between women
    and men. If the two genders are in conflict and the whole
    village is caught in it, the gatekeepers are the ones to bring
    peace. Gatekeepers do not take sides. They simply play
    the role of “the sword of truth and integrity.””

    Just thought that was interesting queersness just a few more things i thought was interesting.

    • gatekeepers have “one foot in all the other worlds and the other foot here,” and the “vibration of their body is totally different from others”.
    • “Now as to their sexual orientation, nobody cares about this question, they care only about their performance as gatekeepers.”
    • gatekeepers are not perceived as “the other” and are not compelled to form a separate community to survive. Instead, they are encouraged to fulfill their inherent role and contribute their gifts to the community’s benefit.
    • They possess insight into both genders, allowing them to help men and women understand each other more effectively in daily life. For instance, a group of women might consult a male gatekeeper for village issues, and a female gatekeeper might join a men’s circle for similar purposes.
    • This perspective on homosexuality different from the West, because all sexuality in the village is considered “spiritually-based”.
    • Gatekeepers are crucial for maintaining “alignment between the spirit world and the world ” as they are “the keepers of the keys to other dimensions” and without them, “the gates to the other world would be shut”.
    • Their knowledge differs from that of mentors and elders because gatekeepers have access to all dimensions and can open any gate, often being called upon by elders for assistance in understanding the spirit world or opening specific gateways.
    • Some states that gay and lesbian individuals in the West are often very spiritual but disconnected from their spiritual role, which might lead them to seek other ways of self-definition and to appear as if they do not have a unique purpose.
    • Some also mention that gatekeeping is part of one’s life purpose, declared before birth, and is developed through rigorous training to prevent the misuse of its power. It is not a role sought for power or sexual orientation, and a true gatekeeper is responsible for the entire village and tribe.

  • I didn’t choose my name.

    It was carved into me.

    I spoke it aloud.

    Craig

    It did not echo. It entered.

    The name was not found.
    It was revealed—

    wrenched from the silence between worlds.
    And what met me there remains sealed in shadow.

    Obsession

    my obsession is not hidden.

    I move between lust sadist hedonism addiction

    vested in vestments that make the holy obscene.

    Where the body trembles not in shame, but in revelation.

    Where gods come to watch.

    Of Blood and Belief

    I did not inherit my faith. I bled for it.

    Educated in divinity, I drank not from dogma

    but from the poisoned wells of philosophy, mysticism, and myth.
    I read scripture like a lover’s letter—
    smudged, stained, and desperate for meaning.

    I have gospels never canonized.
    I have whispered with the Watchers.
    I have knelt at altars built from torn pages and broken vows.

    My theology is fleshbound.
    My sermons are moans.
    And my prayers are often answered

    in ruin, in rapture.

    Of Ruins and Resurrection

    In my cathedral of the mind, the windows are cracked,
    the icons defaced, and every surface slick with longing.

    I speak in perversions no seminary could teach.

    I edge the veil

    the feral, flickering place where desire becomes doctrine.

    The body is both scripture and heresy,
    and here, we are unrepentantly whole.

    Of Welcome and the Worthy

    This space is consecrated for those who crave beyond the binary. No guilt. No shame. No denial of what makes you ache.

    if your heart beats louder in the presence of ritual,
    if your spirit hums when forbidden doors creak open—

    Then you’re not broken.
    You’re chosen.

    Of Fetish and Faith

    My Theology is fetish, sex and drugs

    Angels who fell not from pride, but from lust

    The sacred and profane intertwined in a single trembling body

    This is my scripture.

    Of Justice and the Veil

    This is a sacred container.

    It does not exist for spectacle.

    We honor empathy. We demand respect.

    Bring your reverence and your ruin.
    Come holy. Come haunted.
    But come correct.

    Of Confession and Catharsis

    Strip. Not just your body—your pretense.

    your truths. Bleed them if you must

    Here, the sacred doesn’t just forgive.
    It feasts.

    And in that hunger,

    we are unmade,
    we are undone,
    and we are remade.