#blackarmor

No, I never foresaw the war. I have to admit that all those clumsy things we used to do to “pray for our people” never really changed anything. Sure, some traditions in Ukrainian folk witchcraft are still alive. Mostly it’s the protective charms that girls used to make for their lovers — and I’ve done something similar myself for someone dear.

But the point here is different. War pushes everything to extremes — either into despair or into fantasy. I used to think that praying for someone could make things easier. It doesn’t. That’s an illusion that only holds when you’re drowning in helplessness. Real change demands real effort, real resources, real work.

War has stripped away what I thought mattered. The hope for a peaceful life ahead. Now there is only a kind of stoic understanding that if I die — there will be nothing I can do about it.

Out of all the magical tools I once used in peacetime — spells for money, for health, for love — only grounding and centering practices remain. Meditation, some simple visualizations. The present moment cuts away anything illusory, no matter how sweet it used to feel.

The same happened to my methods. Only the essential parts survived — the ones I still have strength for. Instead of dozens of herbs, only those with real, proven effects, and maybe the simple act of holding a warm cup to feel the “spirit of the plant.” Instead of complex ceremonies — small, quiet rituals with three steps at most. Even the seasonal festivals have become shadows of what they were — leaving only reflection, dim light, silence, and my magical journal.

Hard truth is — this kind of test isn’t given to everyone. I see people still playing at being grand witches while everything around them is collapsing. While people are dying. While those who need real support are offered placebo instead of actual help — help that requires strength, time, and money that many don’t have.

I’m tired. And magic, for me, is now only my private practice. Small, simple, quiet, without ornament.

War is always pain. And I cannot afford anything excessive anymore.

Donations to the army and to volunteer funds make more sense to me now — because that is the symbolic gesture that actually changes something.

Maybe this sounds too skeptical. But my point is: help is either real or it’s not. And I’m glad I woke up in time, pulled my head out of the sand.

Magic can transform reality. But the first transformation is always internal.

Castigators from the Black Judges