I've been here over two months now, with three weeks remaining. I have practiced magick on and off for at least 10 years, but not very seriously until recently.

Last year, I moved into a sober house on the central California coast. My new roommate, immediately upon seeing me, asked to read my tarot. I soon became enthralled, and found myself under the tutelage of the most powerful psychic and witch I have ever met. Finally I found something that captivated me more than drugs-the occult. I delved in earnestly.

Soon, I relapsed and hopped on a train to Oregon. Me and my teacher had had a falling out, I didn't fully understand why, but we never spoke again. Last month he died of covid. I never made my amends.

Thus my dedication grew tenfold. I practice every day, rigorous and lovingly. I try to walk the path he showed me- the middle path, eclectic. He would be proud, his one and only student continuing in this world with the burning passion he had once held. His last name meant "deer," and now I will forever view that animal as the emblem of the man who made me a witch.

A big part of doing this right is treating myself right. I will carry the love and excitement and curiosity with me forever. Magick is the reason why I am alive. It's like I've just learned to walk at 33. Certainly a magickal age to reinvent one's soul. I will honor his spirit in my every action, and honor myself with a sobriety full of burning awe and love.