#shadow integration

Motherhood was my blood moon. Something in me darkened. Something in me became sovereign and I have been eclipsing ever since.

03.03.2020

What’s your Venus element? Did @astrhology captivate your Venus or it’s not hitting?

Me, personally? I’m a Venus in Gemini ♊️ && YAAAA this slapped for me. Lol I am definitely versatile with many interests and I actually do attract “weirdos” cause of my Aqua 7H. That’s my style and it keeps me intrigued and interested lol. 😂 I’m engaged to another Venus in Gemini and we banter and laugh and flirt with words LMAOOO 🌸🌸✨✨🌸🏳️🥸

Picture source: @ astrhology

A quiet note after reading.

What stood out wasn’t the terminology, but the insistence on responsibility.

Across these pages, “magick” isn’t treated as spectacle or escape. It’s framed as intentional change, rooted first in the subjective world. Perception, will, focus. Not belief as fantasy, but belief as orientation.

There’s a repeated refusal to outsource agency. No bowing. No surrendering of authorship. Symbols are tools, not authorities. Ritual isn’t a shortcut, it’s a container for attention. If nothing changes within the subjective universe, nothing meaningful follows in the objective one.

I also noticed the warning beneath the surface: collecting ideas without practice becomes its own form of avoidance. Knowledge can sharpen the will, but it can also anesthetize it if it’s never embodied.

What lingers for me is this distinction between influence and alignment. Lesser change moves things around us. Greater change reorganizes how we see, choose, and persist. The work isn’t about commanding reality. It’s about refining the self that meets it.

No theatrics. No guarantees.

Persona 3, 4, and 5: A Velvet Noose Around the Neck of Death

"One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious."  - Carl Jung

Atlus didn’t build a trilogy about saving the world. They built an execution chamber for human innocence, disguised as a school calendar. Each entry in Persona 3, 4, and 5 leads the player not toward transcendence, but toward a slow, ritualistic dismemberment of the self’s last illusions.

Together, these games are not just coming-of-age stories. They are a three-act eulogy for the very idea that identity, morality, or hope exist without the consent of death.

Persona 3: Thanatos in a School Uniform

You don’t begin Persona 3 by discovering life. You begin it by holding a gun to your head.

This is not metaphor - it is ritual. The Evoker isn’t a weapon. It’s a symbolic execution. To awaken your Persona is to commit ego death. You simulate suicide to summon survival.

Your enemies aren’t demons. They are shadows - the discarded sludge of the human collective unconscious. The place Jung said held “everything we refuse to be.”

But the shadows aren’t the real enemy. They’re the symptoms. The disease is the Thanatos instinct - the gravitational pull toward stillness, silence, and non-being.

“Death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death.”  - Ludwig Wittgenstein

The protagonist doesn’t “conquer” death. He becomes its seal. He transforms into a sacrificial bulwark between oblivion and the crowd too terrified to look it in the eye.

He doesn’t save them. He dies to keep them from seeing what’s coming.

And the game has the audacity to call this hope.

Persona 4: Fog as Collective Suicide

Welcome to Inaba - a town that smiles while it rots. Unlike the grim metaphysics of P3, Persona 4 shoves you into a murder mystery wrapped in a sitcom tone.

But that smile is a mask. The game even tells you:

“You’re not facing reality. You’re creating a version of it you can accept.”

The real antagonist isn’t the killer. It’s the fog - a substance less meteorological than metaphysical. It represents the psychic smog of denial, the weapon we use to blind ourselves from our own interior horror.

Inside the TV world, every character meets a twisted version of themselves - an abject, raw confession of everything they hate about who they are.

These are not bosses. They are unprocessed trauma wearing skin.

And when they’re defeated? They disappear. Not healed - integrated.

You don’t defeat your Shadow. You assimilate it. You become it.

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”  - Jung

And Adachi? He’s not evil. He’s honest.

“Nobody cares who lives or dies. This world is just a trash heap. People live, then die and vanish. That’s reality.”

He is the game’s most terrifying mirror. Not because he kills. But because he sees clearly, and laughs.

He doesn't want to destroy the world. He just wants to remind you: there’s nothing in it to save.

Persona 5: Ideology as a Mask Against Cosmic Horror

By Persona 5, the series has moved from graveyard to stage play. It looks like a rebellion, but it’s really a descent into a deeper layer of dream.

You are not awakening the masses. You are hallucinating meaning in an unfeeling world.

The palaces are not dungeons. They are cathedrals of ego defense. Every villain is an avatar of someone who tried to become God to silence their fear of being forgotten.

But it’s not the adults who are damned. It’s the player.

The more hearts you “steal,” the more you convince yourself you’re righteous. But you’re not changing society. You’re acting out a collective desire for aesthetic revolution - to dress up despair as stylish rebellion.

Even Yaldabaoth - the literal false god - is just a reflection. He doesn’t rule you.

“You prayed for someone to choose for you. To protect you. To end the burden of being free.”

You created him. Because freedom is terrifying. Because without a god, you’d have to admit: you are alone in the dark, screaming into a silence that will never answer.

The Velvet Room Is Not a Sanctuary - It’s the Waiting Room of the Soul

Throughout all three games, the Velvet Room appears as a place of guidance. But it's never benevolent.

In P3, it is a pre-funerary chamber - a morgue with jazz.

In P4, it is a therapy room for fractured minds who think healing is possible.

In P5, it is a prison, and Igor is your jailer.

Every contract you sign is Faustian.

Every Persona you fuse is a murdered self, devoured to create a new lie.

You are not becoming stronger. You are killing off every contradiction within yourself until what remains is pure will - the will to continue pretending this matters.

Persona Is a Suicide Note Folded Into a Tarot Deck

These games are beautiful. They are stylish. They are alive.

But beneath that, they are funeral processions for the modern soul, scored by J-pop and sung in the voice of shadows.

Persona doesn’t want you to be a hero. It wants you to feel the weight of your mask, and wonder if you were ever more than a dream a dying god had in the dark.

“There is no coming to consciousness without pain.”  - Jung

And perhaps that’s the secret Atlus never said aloud:

○○ A soft warning: You are about to read language that touches the primordial. It speaks of descent, dissolution, and the deep currents of the psyche. This is an evocation, not an induction. It is the scent of rain on dry ground, not the storm itself. Your awareness is your own anchor.✦

✦ ᚺ ᚢ ᚲ ᚺ ✦

The Symbolic Domain

Psychologically, water represents the deep and mysterious layers of the psyche. The subterranean realm of the unconscious — where emotion precedes thought.

It is the symbolic domain of the anima: not as gender, but as receptive, intuitive, fluid psychic qualities.

Water expresses the movement of psychic energy itself. Its ability to adapt, to flow, to take the shape of whatever contains it.

There is a fruit you have likely eaten without knowing what was inside it. The fig is not actually a fruit but an inflorescence, a hollow chamber lined with hundreds of tiny flowers that bloom in total darkness and never see the sun. They cannot be pollinated by wind or bee or any of the casual visitors that serve other plants. They can only be reached by one specific wasp, Blastophaga psenes, with whom the fig has been in covenant for roughly eighty million years. This is something older than collaboration, older than partnership, older than most of what we recognize as the present world. The fig and the wasp authored each other across spans of time that precede human consciousness, slowly shaping themselves into precise correspondence. The ostiole exactly the size of her body, her body exactly the shape of the opening, until the fit was so specific that neither could exist without the other.

The female wasp finds the fig and enters through the ostiole, a nearly sealed opening at the base. The passage is so narrow that she tears off her own wings against the entrance. Once inside, she pollinates the hidden flowers and lays her eggs in some of them. She has no exit. She dies in the dark interior of the fruit, and the fig produces an enzyme called ficin that breaks down her body and incorporates her substance into its own ripening. She becomes the fig. Her nitrogen feeds the sweetness. Inside her, eggs hatch into a new generation of wasps. The males are blind and wingless, never made for the world outside. They mate with the females while the females are still emerging from their galls, in the dark, inside the consumed body of their mother. Then the males chew an exit tunnel through the fruit's wall and die without ever using it. The pollen-coated females climb out through the door their brothers made, and fly toward the next fig, carrying the mystery outward.

Consider the story of Eden. A woman who reaches for the fruit because a serpent tells her to look at it. The fruit is conventionally rendered as an apple, though the text never says so. Apples did not grow in that climate, and the older traditions name the fruit differently. The Talmudic tradition often identifies it as a fig. The very leaves Adam and Eve use to cover themselves come from the same tree whose fruit they ate. They wrap themselves in the foliage of their own initiation. If the fig is the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, then the entire story changes shape, because the fig contains, in its biology, the actual mechanics of what that knowledge would have to be.

The serpent tells Eve that her eyes will be opened, that she will not die, that she will know as god knows. All of this is accurate. She does not die from the fruit. Her eyes are opened. She does come into a kind of knowing that changes her perception of her condition permanently. The serpent is the only voice in the story willing to tell her what is actually inside the fruit. And the serpent — chthonic, ground-dwelling, shedder of skins, the creature of transformation — is structurally the wasp. The specific initiatory force with the exact resonant frequency for the sealed mystery. It belongs to the older traditions the Eden story is consciously overwriting: the pre-agricultural goddess cult, the chthonic feminine mysteries, the systems that understood transformation as something that happens in the dark interior of things and that requires a specific entry by a specific force.

Eve reaches for the fruit and in doing so makes herself the wasp. She enters the sealed interior of the knowledge of good and evil. She loses what was Edenic in her — the aerial existence where everything is given and nothing requires understanding — and she finds inside what the fig has always contained: that creation requires sacrifice, that sweetness requires death in the dark, that you cannot have the fruit without the wasp inside it. She is condemned for her gnosis. For preferring reality to the managed enclosure. For finding out what was already growing in the garden.

The knowledge of good and evil is not moral knowledge. The Hebrew terms, tov and ra, translate more precisely as functional and dysfunctional, ordered and chaotic, life-serving and death-serving. What Eve gains is not the capacity to distinguish virtue from sin. It is the knowledge of how things actually work, which includes the knowledge that breakdown is part of the function. The death of the wasp is not the dysfunction of the system. It is the system operating correctly. The knowledge of good and evil is the knowledge that what looks like destruction from one perspective is generation from another, that both are simultaneously true, that you cannot have the fruit without the death, and that this is not a flaw to be corrected but the structure of reality itself. This is what the local god in the garden does not want her to have, because gnosis at the level of the system itself cannot be fully managed by an authority operating at a single point within it. Eve, knowing as god knows, is no longer fully governable. Her sight is the threat.

The blooms inside the fig are the first deep teaching. Hundreds of flowers that will never see light, because they were made to exist only in sealed interiority. Their destiny is to be pollinated in darkness and to pass what they generate into something that will carry it outward, but they themselves will never be the thing that emerges. They are permanently the hidden cause. This is a structural statement about how certain orders of generative power operate: the alchemical vessel is sealed, the womb is sealed, the tomb is sealed, the chrysalis is sealed. The thing that makes the fruit possible is never the fruit. The interior blooms are the principle of fecund hiddenness — Persephone as the grain that goes into the ground and disappears, the not-knowing that is the condition under which the miracle occurs. Outward visibility is not the measure of generative power. The patriarchal traditions have spent centuries trying to forget this.

The specificity of the wasp is the second teaching. The fig does not accept generalized pollinators. Eighty million years of co-evolution means the fit is exact. This is the occult doctrine of correspondences in its most material form: as need so instrument, as mystery so the specific force capable of entering it. In magical terms it is why the true name matters — because the sealed interior only opens to the precise resonant frequency that matches it. Everything else beats against the outside and accomplishes nothing. The relationship between a sealed mystery and its specific initiatory force is a covenant written across deep time, and both parties are changed by having kept it.

This means that the part of a person capable of entering a particular mystery is specific. Not every part of you has access to every chamber. And the part with the resonant frequency is almost never the part that volunteers. The part that volunteers is the aerial self — the part that has read the books, understood the framework, prepared conceptually. That part is real and necessary, but it is too large for the ostiole. It carries too many other purposes and self-concepts to fit through. The wasp-shaped part is smaller and stranger and usually not what you would choose to send. It might be the part that doesn't know how to leave a situation that's hurting it, because something in it recognizes that leaving would close a door the mystery requires open. It might be a wound that keeps reopening, a longing without object, the crying that has no narrative. The aerial self looks at these and tries to manage them. But they are not problems to be solved. They are the specific shapes that fit the specific openings. The fig was made in the shape of the wasp across deep time, and the mystery was made in the shape of the part of you that has been circling it since before you knew what it was.

The third teaching is the loss of wings at the threshold. This is one of the more honest accounts of what real spiritual initiation feels like from the inside, which is not beautiful dissolution but violent narrowing. The wings come off because the orientation toward flight is incompatible with the orientation toward interior. You cannot enter a sealed mystery while still holding the possibility of exit. The aerial self experiences the loss of wings as amputation, as the end of something, and it is. The traditions that refuse to say this clearly produce initiates who arrive expecting transcendence and shatter when they find amputation. The wings represented options, perspective, the capacity to leave. After the threshold there is only the interior, only this specific work in this specific darkness with this specific pollen. Initiation makes you more precisely what you are by making it impossible to be other things. This is what the gates of Inanna teach. Each item removed at each gate is an identity that turns out not to be essential. The crown is not her. The robe is not her. What remains when everything removable has been removed is the irreducible self, smaller than the aerial self imagined and more specifically powerful.

After genuine initiatory passage, you become less available for what isn't yours. The aperture narrows. Relationships sustained by the diffuse aerial self start to feel wrong without it to maintain them. Work that felt possible when you had many possible wings becomes impossible when you have shed the wings that powered it. This is frequently experienced as loss, depression, diminishment, because the aerial self's framework evaluates all of it as loss. What is actually happening is specification. You are becoming the thing that fits the sealed interior that was always waiting for you, and in that process you become unavailable for what required you to be something else.

The fourth teaching is dying inside, and it is here that the fig story begins to map onto the deepest initiatory mythologies. Inanna descends to the underworld because it is her sister's domain and she is constitutionally incapable of leaving any kingdom unentered. Her completeness requires the descent. At each gate she is stripped, until she arrives naked and bowed before Ereshkigal, who kills her. Hangs her on a hook. She is meat in a dark room for three days. The hook is the place where every aerial strategy becomes irrelevant. You cannot find a comfortable position on it. You cannot reframe it. You cannot find the lesson while you are on it. You are simply held by the thing you cannot overcome, for as long as it takes, with no guarantee of outcome. While she hangs there, Ereshkigal moans — the text uses a word that means both labor-pain and grief-pain — and Inanna, as a corpse, is present for it. She cannot respond, cannot help, cannot interpret. She has to receive the reality of Ereshkigal's existence without filtering it through Inanna-consciousness. This is what it means to be present to the shadow: being a corpse in its presence while it makes sounds you cannot translate as either birth or grief.

The Inanna-self cannot survive the contact because the Inanna-self was constructed partly as a defense against Ereshkigal. Identity depends on the distinction. When the goddess of everything finally stands before the part of herself that is pure suffering, pure interiority, pure darkness, the identity collapses. It has to. You cannot be the goddess of everything and simultaneously maintain the fiction that you are only the bright things. We cannot look directly at our own Ereshkigal because our sense of self is built in opposition to her. The depression, the rage, the grief without object, the part that does not want to be redeemed — that part is not waiting to be healed by our Inanna-consciousness. It is waiting to kill her. And the killing is the initiation.

The Black Madonna in her oldest iterations is this principle made icon. Not the gentle dark virgin of artistic convention. The Black Madonna of Montserrat, whose darkness is geological. She is the color of the mountain's interior, of the place before light existed. The Black Madonna of Czestochowa with two slashes across her cheek that cannot be painted over because they keep returning, the wound that became sacred because the damage revealed something. The Black Madonna of Rocamadour set into a cliff face, reached only by pilgrims climbing on their knees, who cannot walk upright to her and must become smaller than they normally are to arrive. These are the chthonic feminine in undiluted form, the dark interior of the earth as a being who holds the living potential but is not the thing that emerges into light. They are the sealed fig made visible in human form. They are Ereshkigal's domain rendered as devotional object.

The fifth teaching is the digestion. The wasp does not simply die and remain a corpse inside the fruit. The fig's ficin breaks her down and incorporates her substance into the ripening. She becomes the fig. Her nitrogen feeds the sweetness. The fig does not mourn her. It digests her and grows sweeter. This is what the alchemists meant by solve et coagula, the dissolution is the sacred work. The thing has to break down inside the vessel.

This is also Osiris. He is dismembered by Set and scattered across Egypt. Isis gathers the pieces and through her the body is reconstituted — transformed into something that can do what it could not do before. He becomes the lord of the underworld, the judge of the dead, the god of resurrection. Grain grows from where his body fell. The Nile floods from his dissolution. He is more after the dismemberment than before it, because of what the death did to his substance. The wasp in the fig is doing this. Her body in the fruit is why the fruit is sweet. The tradition that says sacrifice generates abundance is describing a structural fact about how reality operates at every scale, and the myth is the human mind recognizing a pattern that runs all the way down.

The male wasps illuminate something about the divine masculine that most contemporary frameworks have lost. They are born blind and wingless, inside the death-space of their mother's consumed body. They mate with the females in the dark, before the females have emerged from their galls, while the females are still becoming what they will be. Then the males chew an exit tunnel they will never use. They are architects of a threshold they cannot cross. They make the door for the females' passage and dissolve into the same ficin-digestion that took their mother. This is the masculine principle as pure consecratory function, the one who makes the passage possible, who meets the feminine at the moment of her awakening into capacity, and whose entire being is exhaled into her emergence. In Jungian terms this is the animus at its most fundamental, as the thing that prepares the door from inside and never leaves. Anubis at the threshold. The hidden priest whose function is the preparation.

The females meanwhile awaken into their nature inside the death-space of their mother's tomb-fruit. This is the most compressed image of female initiation that exists in biology. They are born inside a space that is simultaneously their mother's death and the place of their fertilization and the sealed interior of the mystery. They have never seen light. Their first experience of consciousness is in total darkness, in the body of the thing that consumed their mother, being met by the blind interior masculine who will complete their capacity for the outer journey before they have made it. They emerge into the world already fertilized, already pollen-covered, already carrying what they need to enter the next fig.

What the universe is saying through all of this is that we are fig systems. We contain sealed chambers where the blooms of our potential exist in darkness. Those chambers require a specific initiatory force to enter them, which may arrive as a person, a crisis, a practice, a substance, a loss, a depression, a love. That force loses its wings at the threshold and pollinates in the dark and dies inside us. What we produce — the fruits of us, the work, the way we move through the world — is made of the digested substance of everything that entered us and was consumed. The sweet thing contains the dead thing. The exit from any sealed interior was chewed open by something that could not use the door it made.

To lay your eggs in a depression cycle, in a dry season, in a creative block, is to deposit the specific generative potential only you carry into the sealed interior of darkness itself, because your nature requires you to lay them and the darkness is where they can develop. Something in the depression is generative even when nothing feels generative. The act of continuing a practice without felt connection is pollination in the dark. The act of writing something ugly and unresolved in the middle of a block is laying eggs in the sealed interior. You cannot see the blooms you are reaching. You cannot see whether the pollen is landing. You do it because you are wasp-shaped and the fig is fig-shaped and across all the dark unmeasured time something made them to require each other. The trust required is the eighty-million-year covenant kind of trust, a pattern so deep it precedes feeling. The fig has been making itself in the shape of the wasp for longer than feeling has existed as a category.

To be digested is not to survive the dark season intact, carrying what you learned, returning to the aerial self enriched. That is a story the aerial self tells about initiation to make it palatable. The actual thing is the ficin. The dark season incorporates you — not the lessons you took from it, not the insights, but the substance of the self that entered. You do not come out of a genuine dissolution as the same wasp who went in. You come out as the fruit that season produced. What you are on the other side is made of the digested substance of what went in. This is why the people who love you sometimes grieve a version of you they cannot quite account for. They tasted the fruit of a different season and some part of them knows the wasp who made that vintage is gone. What they are tasting now is this fruit, this season, made of this dying. Different sweetness, different seeds.

The fig does not promise that the wasp survives. It promises that the fruit will be sweet, that the seeds will carry the living potential outward, that the door will be chewed from inside by something that cannot use it, so that what needs to emerge can emerge. It is a system that runs entirely on the willingness of the wasp-shaped things to enter.

This is what Eve found out. That the knowledge of good and evil was the knowledge of the sealed structure of how reality generates itself through enclosure and specificity of contact, through the loss of the aerial self at the threshold, through the pollination of things that will never be seen, through the dying inside, through the digestion, through the emergence of something new through a door chewed open by what cannot use it. The serpent told her the truth. She made the choice that removed the wings. She entered. And what she found inside was the actual mechanics of how transformation works — which is terrible, which involves losing what you cannot recover, which involves your substance becoming food for what you entered, which involves the males who never even get to leave at all.

She is not condemned in the deepest reading of the story. She is the first one to know what was inside. The first one whose eyes were opened to the structure that the local god could not afford for her to see. The first one to lose her wings at the ostiole and find that what was waiting inside was the oldest covenant, written in eighty million years of patient correspondence between the sealed mystery and the specific shape that fits it.

Whatever in you is wasp-shaped has been circling the ostiole for longer than you know. Feeling the specific shape of the opening. Waiting for the moment when entering becomes more fully itself than not entering.