Prose of The Magician
A prose poem based on The Magician of the Tarot's Major Arcana.
Swaying between the fine line of arrogance and confidence, destruction and creation. That place of transformation many dare not to step. They’ve been taught to quiver at other powers, staying grounded as the boom of the gods shake the world. When that boom rattled your bones, however, you were not shaken. You resonate with the thunder as if it were a destined call. Rather than keep your head to the ground, you stare down the heavens with a finger pointing at the cosmos and another to the underworld.
It’s sad they confuse your autonomy with trickery. Being so in touch with your power is an unfamiliar sight in a sheepish society. Yes! You enjoy bending reality extravagantly or subtlety, even when they damn you for blasphemy. You’ve ripped open the eyes of some sheep and they hope their gods will sew them shut again, but as you live your truth and embrace your will, you wield your wand, calling magic to you.
Your mortal coil may fall under temptation disguised as caution or aggression. Those with their heads to the ground will seem more wise than compliant. The taunting of the gods will seem more like a warning than a challenge. Why should that stop you? Drops of rain from the godly thunders fall into your eyes and saturate your tongue. You’re no longer fluent in crippling fear. You transmute your fear into the essence of your courage, using your mind to forge a sword. You grip it and cut your mortal coil with your focus to the heavens, feet firmly planted into Gaia.
You accept the challenge of the gods. Bring your trials forth! In their snickering, the experiences of life consume you. There is rattling under your feet. The earth begins to break. Mountains bow to the heavens as they weep rushing rivers through forests and deserts. And yet, you stand. Liquid fire pours through the cracks in the ground and tease your skin with searing heat. Magma spits and careens into the earth around you. And yet, you stand. Mighty winds push and pull in chaotic passion. Trees are uprooted, the swirling sands are razor sharp, lightning cracks and burns the debris. And yet, you stand. You stand trusting the earth you’ve manifested in diligence with the pentacles tattooed to the bottoms of your feet.
The gods are impressed with your resilience amidst a shifting world, but the goddesses wonder about your internal resolve. Are you so proud that you can’t trust yourself in a state of surrender? Does your will become brittle when thousands of tears erode your shell or does it flow? The goddesses sing, turning the world into eternal night, dark waters at your feet. They want to see who you are when you can’t compare yourself to the external world. One goddess takes a chalice, scooping the void up, then offers it to you. You take it. You feel the chill of the void press through the chalice and onto your hands as you open your mouth, letting the icy pool of black fall on your tongue and down your throat. Finally, you fall and the cosmos cradle your newborn form.
For you to become one with everything like the gods, accept nothingness. Accept that all you knew was nothing. All you loved was nothing. All you hoped for was nothing. All you had faith in was nothing. Because all is founded in nothing, and you made it into something. Your will became the wand in your hand, your mind became the sword in the other, your strength became the pentacles, and your truth became the waters in the chalice. From nothing, you made something, like The Magician you are.
Read: The Prose of the Fool