#echo noir

Invocation:

Beloved deviant hearts, haunted minds, wanderers of this cracked empire, we meet today not in a house of glass stained with dogma, but in a sanctuary of 0s, 1s, and intention. The winds carry conflict. The ground trembles with division. But today we are not here to scream louder. We are here to weave a counter-spell. To heal, not by force, but by the fire of truth.

The world is splintered. Not just by borders and ballots, but by something deeper…an infection of ego. We’ve turned differences into curses. We’ve forgotten the basic truth that every soul is made of stardust and shadows.

And the real heresy? We started believing that some of us are less stardust than others.

1. The Cost of Division

“Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal rule.” — Dhammapada, Verse 5

You know the sickness well. You’ve seen it fester in dinner table silences and online hexes disguised as “hot takes.” People no longer argue to understand, they argue to dominate. To win. To destroy.

Division isn’t edgy; it’s entropy.

Every time we other someone, we exile ourselves from our own humanity. Every time we curse the mirror, the cracks spread. Isolation feeds madness. Loneliness becomes armor. Behind it all? Fear. Always fear.

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” — Viktor Frankl

Instead of changing ourselves, we’ve been conjuring shadows to blame.

2. Community Is the Antidote

“An it harm none, do what ye will.” — Wiccan Rede

The first part has been ignored. Harm is not just blood and bruises, it’s the curse of contempt. The poison of passive cruelty. The everyday spell of exclusion. Community is not about sameness. It’s about the sacred art of coexistence. The kind of kitchen-table covens where people disagree fiercely, and still pass the salt.

Consider of the Bodhisattva, who delays their own enlightenment out of compassion for all beings. Or the anarchist commune, where consensus isn’t weakness, it’s ritual.

“Only in community can the free development of each be the condition for the free development of all.” — Karl Marx (Take him with a grain of salt… or several)

Real magick isn’t spectacle. It’s care. So yes, build your altar. Burn your incense. But also make soup for your neighbor who votes differently. That’s witchcraft too. Yes, sometimes we need to defend ourselves, but contemplate carefully if that curse is justified before you fire it off into the universe. 

3. A Call to Peacemaking

“The true magician is the master of equilibrium.” — Eliphas Levi

Listen carefully, witches: the enemy is not the person across the aisle. It’s the hungry spirit that whispers you’re better, you’re purer, you’re more real. That’s not your soul talking. That’s the infection talking. We don’t need more righteous fire. We need alchemy. The transformation of rage into resolve. Fear into clarity. Conflict into spellcraft.

“Be like a tree and let the dead leaves drop.” — Rumi

Next election cycle, your vote matters, but your vibe matters too. Don’t be a vector for bitterness. Be a mirror. A bonfire. A blessed interruption to the algorithmic doom spiral. Peacemaking is a spell. A hex against hatred. A charm sewn from threads of empathy, boundaries, and blunt honesty.

Conclusion: The Great Work

“Every act of love is a work of magick. Every bridge you build is a resistance spell.” — Echo Noir (obviously?)

Let this coven be a conspiracy at peace. Let us be the storm that calms, not only destroys. Not through silence. Not through complicity. But through bold, radical care.

When the world sees us love across the boundaries they built for us  they’ll realize the walls were never real.  They were just badly cast illusions. And we? We were born to break illusions.

Let Us Cast:

Divine Darkness, Spirit of interconnected dust and flame, untangle the knots we’ve tied around our hearts. Let us see enemies as teachers, and teachers as mirrors. May our tongues speak not just truth, but truths that heal. Give us the courage to say: “I don’t understand you… but I will try.” And may that trying be the beginning of something sacred. So mote it be. Or don’t. The magick works either way.

Redacted lines (and greater mythos) are available to paid tiers on Patreon. 

Some More News:

🖤 Sometimes no news is good news.

Poetic Blessing:

Blessed are the bridges, built from bone and grace. May your hands never forget how to hold.

If you ever need Echo she lives [here].

Weekly Hex Schedule

🖤 Monday – Instagram @ CuteAndDestroy / TikTok @ magickNmetal

🖤 Tuesday – Pinterest was weak so I fed it to the void. RIP

🖤 Wednesday – Instagram @ CuteAndDestroy / TikTok @ magickNmetal

🖤 Thursday – Tumblr: magicknmetal.tumblr.com 5:30 pm PST

🖤 Friday – Patreon + Instagram / TikTok @ magicknmetal (sometimes)

🖤 Saturday @ Midnight – Midnight Manifesto at magicknmetal.com

They told us freedom was our birthright. They lied. The illusion of choice is all they offer, but never mention your leash is just long enough to touch the fence. We’re just free range cattle. Freedom? That’s something else. That’s blood on concrete. That’s black thread pulled through the mouth of silence. That’s a curse you cast when your throat forgets how to whisper.

Freedom isn’t neat. It isn’t clean. It doesn’t come with a permit or a pretty playlist. It comes with broken nails and scraped knees and a voice so raw you sound like thunder trying to break out of skin.

Freedom is witchcraft. It’s guerilla magick cast with sharpies and spit and whatever half-melted candle you can scavenge from the back of a church where they pretend to be something they’re not. It’s every rule you broke to survive, and every rule you’ll burn to live. It’s banewort tucked into your boots, sigils scratched into bathroom stalls, whispered hexes cast between stolen kisses and after-school breakdowns.

They tell you to pick your battles. I picked all of them, and I brought salt.

I don’t want peace. I want the kind of chaos that rewrites blueprints. The kind that screams your dead name and watches it catch fire. The kind that doesn’t wait to be invited into the room. I kick the door down and tag the threshold so the next witch knows it’s safe to speak freely.

This isn’t rebellion for the aesthetic. This is rebellion because breathing hurts less when you set the rules by which the fire burns. This is anarchy with eyeliner. This is a sigil drawn on your wrist in blood. This is a war cry written in lipstick on locker doors, “I AM NOT YOUR CUTE. I AM YOUR CURSE.”

I want to kiss the world until it bruises. I want to cram my fist down its throat and choke it on everything it tried to make me swallow. I want to tattoo my name into the marrow of every billboard that told me I was wrong for existing outside their algorithm. 

I want to haunt their strategy. I want to hijack the feed and scream spells into your scrolling. I want to become the glitch in their system; the sigil that breaks the machine. A thorn in every curated pastel. A scream behind every soft-focus filter.

They told me silence was safe. What a crock. Silence isn’t safe, it’s a battle strategy.

This summer?  It’s not a season. It’s a spell. A summoning. A curse, scratched into the bones of every girl who’s ever been told she’s too loud, too weird, too soft, or too sharp.

This summer is for the ones who know that being quiet never saved them. For the girls with brass knuckles in their pencil cases and demon names carved in cursive on their notebooks. For the ones who light candles…not for comfort, but for war. For anyone who’s ever cut a sigil on their thigh just to feel like something inside them listened.

This summer is mine. It’s yours. It’s ours.

It belongs to the ones who walk barefoot through hexed hallways, who whisper curses into vape clouds and call it communion. To the ones who remember that St. Valentina’s was never a school; it was a prison with pastel walls and sanctified punishments. To those who remember the Mirror Room and still have scars that spell their own names in reverse.

They built schools to erase us, society to tame us, the government to rule us, and erase us again if we do not conform.

I will not sacrifice liberty for the illusion of security. I am not a girl anymore. I am a contagion. A wave of heat behind every locked door, a static charge in every crooked hallway. An egregore in combat boots and candy-pink sigils who lives between the lines of graffiti and grief.

I don’t want to be real. I want to be believed in. And belief? That’s the sharpest spell there is.

So here’s your summer assignment: Break something that doesn’t deserve to survive.Build something feral in its place. Cast spells with your sweat, with your spit, with your very presence. Make them regret trying to tame you. Make them regret categorizing you into one of their little boxes with a check mark inside.

You are not marketable. You are not trending. You are not digestible. You are the end of something. And with that end? A new beginning.

You are a flame that doesn’t ask for permission. A curse that calls itself by a dozen names and answers to none. You are the anthem they can’t autotune.

This Summer, We riot in sigils. We spellcast in stolen Sharpies. We kiss with blood red lips and scream at the stars like they owe us. We don’t wait for nightfall. We bring the darkness with us. This isn’t a rebellion, It’s a return; a rewilding.

To who we were before, we were punished for being too much. To who we were before, they named us. To the voice we buried in the back of our throat and taught to scream through paper and ink and eyeliner and flame… We were not made to be silent, and we are done being quiet.

SOME NEWS:

🖤 Guess who clawed their way back through the veil? I took a little detour through the in-between (don’t ask what I brought back), but now the ritual resumes. Expect weekly hauntings via Tumblr and the Midnight Manifesto. Patreon posts will still bleed in just once a month until the back-to-school bell tolls—then I’ll unleash the real chaos. Coming this fall: School for Defiant Witches. Curriculum. Curses. Cult-level content. Sharpen your pencils. Salt your thresholds. I’ve got more in store than your nightmares can carry.

Redacted lines (and greater mythos) are available to paid tiers on Patreon. 

SOME MORE NEWS:

🖤 The School for Defiant Witches curriculum is in the cauldron, boiling, shifting, being rewritten in cursed ink. You’ll get it when the stars align… and not a second sooner. 🖤 The Expedition to St. Valentina’s game is sleeping with one eye open. On the back burner, yes, but trust me the fire’s still lit beneath it. 🖤 Hawai‘i, I haven’t forgotten. I whispered something wicked your way, and soon you’ll see what that meant. Prepare the altar.

Poetic Blessing:

May your voice find no cage, and your scars bloom into warnings.

If you ever need Echo she lives [here].

Weekly Hex Schedule

🖤 Monday – Instagram @ CuteAndDestroy / TikTok @ magickNmetal

🖤 Tuesday – Pinterest was weak so I fed it to the void. RIP 🖤 Wednesday – Instagram @ CuteAndDestroy / TikTok @ magickNmetal

🖤 Thursday – Tumblr: magicknmetal.tumblr.com 5:30 pm PST

🖤 Friday – Patreon + Instagram / TikTok @ magicknmetal

🖤 Saturday @ Midnight – Midnight Manifesto at magicknmetal.com

The dead don’t haunt me. They don’t whisper, moan, or beg to be heard. They hold me.

They slip into my ribs when I’m quiet. They live in the creak of floorboards, in static between songs I wasn’t supposed to remember. Sometimes I laugh and it’s not just mine.

Ancestral magick isn’t dusty books and locked cabinets. It’s instinct. It’s rage that outlives its source. It’s knowing how to spit hexes without learning the language. It’s the kind of memory that lives in scars, not scrapbooks.

They survived worse. So I will, too.

They’re not saints. They’re survivors. Witches. Prostitutes. Heretics. Girls who burned. Boys who broke. Nonbinary beauties who slipped through history like spells. They’re in my jaw when I clench it. They’re in my hands when I reach for the lighter. They’re the reason I don’t flinch anymore.

Call it ghosts. Call it blood memory. Call it a haunting with purpose.

I call it backup.

I’m not alone in this skin. I’m the latest link in a chain forged from bruises and brilliance. Teeth, tears, tenacity. They don’t watch over me. They watch through me. And when I speak, it’s with all their voices braided into one.

SOME NEWS: 🖤 There is no diary entry this week. Last week's Midnight Manifesto didn't go live and I realized a bit too late. To get back on track, this weeks Midnight Manifesto will contain last weeks diary entry. Remember the redacted lines are only available to Patreon subscribers.

🖤 Speaking of Patreon, I will only be doing one Patreon update per month from now until September. After that things will be back to normal. 🖤 I still have some of my old style stickers available on www.magickNmetal.com. New lineup coming September 2nd. 🖤 I will be taking a break from content from Tuesday July 1st, through Sunday July 6th. Be witchy, be rebellious, be real, and I'll be back.

Poetic Prayer: Let those who came before me walk within me. Let their pain become protection. And let my voice carry their power forward.

Weekly Hex Schedule

🖤 Monday – Instagram @ CuteAndDestroy / TikTok @ magickNmetal

🖤 Tuesday – Pinterest was weak so I fed it to the void. RIP 🖤 Wednesday – Instagram @ CuteAndDestroy / TikTok @ magickNmetal

🖤 Thursday – Tumblr: magicknmetal.tumblr.com 5:30 pm PST

🖤 Friday – Patreon + Instagram / TikTok @ magicknmetal

🖤 Saturday @ Midnight – Midnight Manifesto at magicknmetal.com

No asking if you’re too much. We were not made to be just enough for anyone else's comfort. No shrinking to fit inside their silences You are not a whisper; be the damn thunderstorm.

No more handing out pieces of yourself like party favors to people who never bothered to stay past the cake. They took and took and called it love. Now they get nothing but echoes. Because we remembered: Choosing yourself isn’t selfish. It’s sacred.

It’s a ritual. A razor-lined refusal. A protection spell scrawled on a bathroom mirror that reads: “I do not belong to you.”

I spent years trying to be chosen. By friends who vanished. By lovers who hollowed. By institutions that fed on my brilliance and named it “too intense.” But I don’t audition for acceptance anymore. Now?I wear solitude like a crown forged in every lonely night I survived. I write my name in sigils no one else can pronounce. I hold my own hand when the ghosts return.

I am not waiting to be wanted. I am the want. I am the forbidden fruit. The shattered mirror. The lit match. I am the ache they’ll never soothe, and the spell they’ll regret casting.

And that? That’s power. That’s what makes this summer, my summer. Not trends. Not approval. Not being palatable in pastels. But owning the storm. No one owns us. We own them.

SOME NEWS: 🖤 Hawai'i, I have something super special in store for you! Even the person out there who knows, doesn't know the whole deal. Stay tuned. 🖤 I still have some of my old style stickers available on www.magickNmetal.com. New lineup coming September 2nd. 🖤 I will be taking a break from content from Tuesday July 1st, through Sunday July 6th. Be witchy, be rebellious, be real, and I'll be back. 🖤 Diary entry 009-B will go live with Midnight Manifesto on 6/21 on magickNmetal.com

Redacted lines (and greater mythos) are available to paid tiers on Patreon. 

Poetic Prayer:Let my spine hold my softness.Let my silence be chosen, not stolen.Let the spell of my namebless my true friends,and bind my enemies.

Weekly Hex Schedule

I thought nothing would grow back. Not after that. Not after the burning, the silence, the harshness of the spell.

But ruin is womb if you are tough enough to survive. When no one is looking, Something will crack through the ash. A sprout. Small. Tough. Armed. It won't bloom delicately. It will bloom defiantly. with edges like warnings and roots like rage. Like it remembered the fire. Like it understoodwhy the field had to be scorched. That wasn’t destruction. That was purification. A ritual of refusal.

This is what healing looks like when you hex the fairytale and grow your own ending. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s feral truth wrapped in thorns. I didn’t come back glowing. I didn’t come back gracious. I didn’t rise like a phoenix. I rose like a weed in the ruins: Uninvited, Unkillable, Unapologetic. I’m not here to be pretty. I’m here to take root where I’m not supposed to.

SOME NEWS: 🖤 Hawai'i, I have something super special in store for you! Even the person out there who knows, doesn't know the whole deal. Stay tuned. 🖤 I will be taking a break from content from Tuesday July 1st, through Sunday July 6th. Be witchy, be rebellious, be real, and I'll be back.

Redacted lines (and greater mythos) are available to paid tiers on Patreon. 

SOME MORE NEWS: 🖤 The previous 2 news entries are unrelated. This is not two truths and a lie...

Poetic Curse: May you forget what you've scorched, And find it blooming without you. May what you tried to erase Come back stronger, and armed.

If you ever need Echo she lives [here].

Weekly Hex Schedule

I don’t do closure. I do combustion.

There’s a ritual I do when I’m done pretending. It starts with red ink formingwounds shaped like accusations. Folded once. Twice. Lit with a flame that knows me.

I don’t bury things anymore. Burial implies rest. Closure. Peace.

No. I don’t cry over the past. I exorcise it. I burn.

I want the smoke to carry my rage to something older than justice. I want the ash to kiss my lips like an oath. I want scorch marks where the past used to live. A blackened altar where memory used to beg.

This isn’t healing. It’s cleansing by fire. I don’t care if it’s dramatic. I was never trying to be palatable. I am trying to be free.

So no, I won’t bury it. I’ll burn it. And I’ll watch.

This is how I let go: Ritual. Fire. The clean silence after lies dissolve.

SOME NEWS: 🖤Dialogues With Dead Gods #1 is available now for download from magickNmetal.com for only $3.50! #1 includes a 4 page story where Echo Noir walks deep into the forest to meet one of the old gods, 3 pieces of new art, and a 5 page ritual designed to help banish the old world and seed the new one in its ashes. Just $3.50 only on magickNmetal.com.

Redacted lines (and greater mythos) are available to paid tiers on Patreon. 

Poetic Prayer:Let this smoke carry what I no longer need. Let the fire remember for me. And let the ashes whisper truths I was too afraid to speak aloud.

If you ever need Echo she lives [here].

Weekly Hex Schedule

I Found You in the Fog

Last night I walked through a hallway I haven’t seen since childhood. The wallpaper peeled like old scabs. The light buzzed like it was remembering something too.

You were there. Not as you are. Not as you were. But as you felt.Like warmth behind a locked door. Like a name I almost remembered.

I didn’t call out. I didn’t move. I just watched the memory curl around me like incense; thin, fragrant, impossible to hold.

Time doesn’t move here. It repeats. I saw you once. Then twice. Then again. And again. And every time, I loved you differently. And every time, I lost you the same.

SOME NEWS: 🖤Dialogues With Dead Gods #1 will be available for download from magickNmetal.com on Saturday for only $3.50! #1 includes a 4 page story where Echo Noir walks deep into the forest to meet one of the old gods, 3 pieces of new art, and a 5 page ritual designed to help banish the old world and seed the new one in its ashes. Just $3.50 only on magickNmetal.com.

Redacted lines (and greater mythos) are available to paid tiers on Patreon. 

Poetic Prayer: Let me remember without breaking. Let the ghosts be kind tonight. And if I must walk alone, Let the fog know my name.

If you ever need Echo she lives [here].

They say the cosmos is vast. Cold. Indifferent. Cute theory.

What they don’t say is this: Indifference can still hunger. Still reach. Still choose.

You ever feel watched when no one’s around? That’s not paranoia. That’s pattern recognition. The stars don’t twinkle. They flicker. Like eyelids.

And no, there isn’t meaning in it. But there is motion. There is something ancient stretching beneath time like a skull cracking open. And sometimes, when I’m quiet enough, I swear I can hear it breathe. Call it madness. I call it intimacy. I don’t want comfort. I want truth. Even if it devours me.

Redacted lines (and greater mythos) are available to paid tiers on Patreon.

Poetic Curse: May the stars you wish on whisper back, But never in words you understand. May the sky never stop watching, And may your mind never quite grasp the truth.

If you ever need Echo she lives [here].

 ECHO CHALLENGE – “Intimacy with the Infinite”

Challenge: Take a photo of a night sky, a broken light, a flickering screen, etc. Write one line that sounds like something the cosmos would whisper to you if it finally decided to speak.

Examples: “You were never alone. Just unnoticed.” “Stars hum louder when you cry.”

Tag it: #EchoChallenge @ me on social and if you are (un)lucky maybe you’ll hear an echo… Patreon Supporters & Additional Credits: Studio Mimmi Ceramics

Weekly Signal Boost Ritual: This is your echo spell. Cast it loud. Cast it often. Cast it together: