mythic praxis

the world is speaking, this is my first attempt to listen back

by

Zine-making has been simmering on the edge of my creative altar for months—a quiet longing, half-formed but insistent. Since the start of the year, I’ve felt the pull to make something that feels like paper magic—pocket-sized, myth-infused, soul-forward.

Not content.
Not a product.
But a digital relic.
A ritual in downloadable form.

I’ve finally answered that call with Cultivate Mythic Awareness—my first zine.

It’s a poetic field guide for those who sense that beneath the noise and the notifications, life is trying to speak. Not in words, but in symbols. In dreams. In archetypes that rise like mist from your morning coffee or ride shotgun on your commute.

This zine is an invitation to begin noticing what you usually ignore:
The strange repetitions.
The glimmers of meaning.
The whisper beneath the world.

Inside, you’ll find mythic prompts, gentle provocations, and the beginnings of a new kind of perception—story-shaped, soul-tuned, and imaginally alert. It’s not about decoding your life like a puzzle. It’s about learning to live inside the question.

🔗 [Download the PDF here]

If your soul’s been tugging at the edges of your awareness lately—this may be why.
If you’ve been dreaming in symbols or noticing strange synchronicities—this is for you.

And if it speaks to you?

Pass it along to a fellow wanderer.
Or better yet—begin a mythic notebook of your own.

Let’s keep the symbolic current moving.

Breaking the Identity Spell

by

There is a story you’ve been told since before you had words.

Not in the cradle, but in the currents. It whispered from billboards and textbooks, from tired eyes and dinner table silences. A story about limits. About roles. About how far a soul like yours is allowed to roam.

Most of us mistake this story for a mirror. We look into it and see ourselves reflected back, but what we’re really seeing is a script. Someone else’s narrative running on autoplay, projected into our thoughts like shadows on Plato’s cave wall.

You were not born with this story.
You were assigned it.

By culture. By lineage. By systems that benefit from your forgetting.

But something inside you never bought it.
Something wild. Something awake.

Maybe it stirred when you first stared too long at the stars.
Maybe it whispered when a song gave you chills for no reason.
Maybe it comes now, as you read these words and feel something ancient shift.

To sincerely ask, “Who am I?” is to declare a holy rebellion.

It is not a philosophical exercise—it is soul retrieval.
It is not self-help—it is soulcraft.

That question isn’t asking for an answer. It’s asking for a stripping. A remembering.
It wants you raw. It wants the you beneath the armour of identity.

This is not about erasing your story.
It’s about reclaiming authorship.

When you stop mistaking your programming for your personality…
When you stop defending your limitations as if they were your truth…
When you stop outsourcing your meaning to maps drawn by other people’s fears…

Then the spell breaks.

And what’s left?

Not a blank slate, but a fertile one.
Not emptiness, but essence.

This is the place of real power—not control, but clarity.

Power not as domination, but as presence.
Not the ability to bend the world to your will, but the freedom to meet it as you are.

The world has taught you to shape-shift into what is palatable.
Soulcraft invites you to shape-reveal—to let the myth beneath your skin rise to the surface.

That’s why you journal. That’s why you wander. That’s why you ask.

Because something in you remembers: you didn’t come here to fit in.
You came here to reclaim your name.
The one whispered in the before-times.
The one the world tried to bury beneath “shoulds” and “should nots.”

So I ask you, now—beneath the scripts and survival masks:

What is the true story beneath your story?

Who were you before the world named you?

What if your “limits” are just misunderstood thresholds, daring you to cross?

What if power is not something to gain, but something to uncover—once the spell of false identity is broken?

Let this be your daily invocation:

I am not the story I was sold.
I am the myth I am here to live.

Strip away.
Speak true.
Spell yourself back into being.

The Narcissus Paradox: No Self Without a Stage

by

In the myth of Narcissus, the boy does not fall in love with himself until he sees his reflection. The tragedy is not his vanity—but his awakening to selfhood through an audience, even if that audience is only the shimmering eye of a pond.

Strip away the metaphor, and we uncover a deeper truth: without an observer, the self becomes unformed, an echo in a cave that never returns.

The Enlightenment gave us the modern notion of the “individual”—a solitary, sovereign mind standing apart from the herd. But this is a fantasy built atop Cartesian scaffolding. I think, therefore I am only if someone, somewhere, hears the thought. Otherwise, it dissipates like steam from a forgotten kettle.

Identity is not forged in solitude, but in relation. We are narrative creatures, yes—but those narratives require an audience to become real. A performer alone on a dark stage is not yet a performer. A diary sealed forever is not yet a story. Even the hermit, chanting alone in a cave, calls out to something—God, the cosmos, the imagined Other.

We are not merely beings who express—we are beings who long to be witnessed. To be seen is to be shaped. To be heard is to be confirmed.

Even our inner dialogues are populated with ghosts of others: teachers, parents, lovers, enemies, algorithms. We imagine their reactions, replay their judgements, and rehearse their applause. The audience becomes internalised. We perform even when no one is watching, because we believe someone might be.

This is not a weakness. It is a profoundly mythic fact of human consciousness: we become real through reflection. We exist because we are mirrored.

And so the artist, the writer, the rogue thinker—whether broadcasting to thousands or whispering into the void—needs the idea of the audience as scaffolding for the self.

You are not you in isolation. You are you in relation.

Even now, in writing this, I become more myself because you read it.

And you, reader, are not reading alone either. You’re co-authoring this moment with me.

No individual without an audience. No soul without a witness.

That’s the secret fire at the centre of the self.