To Be Your Love, Your Mirror

Greetings, dear readers.

I am organizing some content — a literary production that is unfolding into countless branches. In moments like these, I feel as if I were opening a path which, even though I know where to go and what the destination is, I cannot allow myself to leave as just a trail. Instead, I seek to build a wide, paved road. I hope these words touch you with the same intensity my heart beats and my mind races, as if I were already connected with everyone through time and space.

As I write, I remember films and authors — especially the writings of Aleister Crowley. He is often misunderstood, yet I feel comfortable describing a characteristic of his style that deeply moves me in my creative process: multilayered writing. To inattentive readers, his texts might resemble a mix between detailed instructions and cryptic eccentricities. But to those with the “keys,” a deeper world reveals itself — though even with the keys, some arcana only unlock through experience, not just knowledge.

This trait has fascinated me for years. In my view, Crowley’s writings fall into two major categories: one immersed in symbols and symbolism, so profound that he remains a central figure in the revolution of Western mysticism and magic. The other category is more empirical: texts that document phenomena he couldn’t yet explain due to technological or epistemological limitations — texts where he suggests methods with results, leaving the theoretical understanding to the future.

With this in mind, I reflect on my own journey. I’ve lived through extremes of melancholy and euphoria. In those states, I committed to registering, through mind, body, and soul, every possible perception — to become a student of emotion, thought, and what makes us human. From an early age, I resonated with one of Crowley’s ideas: there is no god but the human being.

One of our Magisters, SentoKampo, beautifully explored this in his work Ponte das Sombras: Deuses Infernais ("Bridge of Shadows: Infernal Gods"). Why mention something as paradoxical as infernal gods? That may be better explored in his book. Here, I stay with my impulse: to write texts that become someone’s love and mirror. Strange, isn’t it? A text that becomes someone’s beloved, someone’s mirror.

I won't delve into love just yet, but let me share a dream of mine: to create content that first entertains the distracted — but then quietly breaks through their chaotic routine and becomes something people deeply crave. Once this content reaches the soul like a mirror, I hope readers begin to see the divine within — not just as something they possess, but as something they are.

As Magister SentoKampo wisely says, the sacred and divine do not demand purity — they can be exalted even through imperfection. And when these imperfections are seen and embraced, when one can cry, scream, tremble if needed, but also sit down with one’s shadow like a reluctant guest for a heartfelt cup of tea — perhaps then, that guest will leave, finding no pain to feed upon.

With texts that serve as a soul’s mirror, where the divine and flawed are seen clearly and respectfully, I dream of breaking through the noise. I dream that someone reads and longs for more — to embrace their shadows, to see their light, to love more… of the content, and of themselves. That is how content becomes love itself.

But how to become love? How could someone love what vanishes after reading? That’s where the layered writing comes in. These are the kinds of texts you encounter, read, feel — and then return to your “normal” life with changes inside you. Something shifts. Something real. And then you return to the text, discovering a deeper layer. The cycle repeats. And soon, like a lover returning to their muse, the reader desires that content again and again.

And in that cycle, the greatest love awakens — the one for the self. The reader falls in love with what they see in the mirror of their own soul.

Signed,

Sir Parzival CyberConS