Lately I feel like a wizard, a wizard who desperately needs his tools. A suit in fine repair. An elegant structure to bundle the organs, and viscera, to hide the raw nerves from the sun, and a wide-brimmed hat to keep my head from filling with rainwater.
To clear your head and let moments flow so that you can feel like the wide world around you has the potential to be filled with magic, you gain simplicity through ritual. Shaving your head and face, the same coffee and oatmeal for breakfast, the warm handshake of the fedora as it clings to your skull. Your possessions are no longer mere possessions, but talismans, totemic items of power, that gird you in your sorties into the world.
An indestructible anodized pen reminds you of a sword, absolute, but still an indicator of flexibility, of flow. That the greatest violence or the greatest tenderness can be transmitted through words.
A rare deck of cards, the package embossed in silver, arcane symbols on the back retaining the mysteries of pure chance, but the thought that in the hands of a skilled operator chance can be shuffled and navigated, that luck is a pool of pure water that folds around us depending on how we behave ourselves in it.
A hard-black bound notebook is a mirror - an obsidian slate that reflects your pretension, your arrogance, your joys and sorrows, reflection is valuable, hold your book tightly.
Your room is filled with piles of books - tomes of treachery and despair, fine things and great learning, Aladdin's caves filled with rich treasures but trapping you in the deep and the dark, under a swirling sea of sand.
Strange men like yourself have limited methods of transport - magic potions, far off destinations, words arranged into incantations, slowly slipping through the eye of the storm wide-eyed and on the hunt for truth and virtue.
To clear your head and let moments flow so that you can feel like the wide world around you has the potential to be filled with magic, you gain simplicity through ritual. Shaving your head and face, the same coffee and oatmeal for breakfast, the warm handshake of the fedora as it clings to your skull. Your possessions are no longer mere possessions, but talismans, totemic items of power, that gird you in your sorties into the world.
An indestructible anodized pen reminds you of a sword, absolute, but still an indicator of flexibility, of flow. That the greatest violence or the greatest tenderness can be transmitted through words.
A rare deck of cards, the package embossed in silver, arcane symbols on the back retaining the mysteries of pure chance, but the thought that in the hands of a skilled operator chance can be shuffled and navigated, that luck is a pool of pure water that folds around us depending on how we behave ourselves in it.
A hard-black bound notebook is a mirror - an obsidian slate that reflects your pretension, your arrogance, your joys and sorrows, reflection is valuable, hold your book tightly.
Your room is filled with piles of books - tomes of treachery and despair, fine things and great learning, Aladdin's caves filled with rich treasures but trapping you in the deep and the dark, under a swirling sea of sand.
Strange men like yourself have limited methods of transport - magic potions, far off destinations, words arranged into incantations, slowly slipping through the eye of the storm wide-eyed and on the hunt for truth and virtue.