dear luci

day10 - necromancy: a practical guide

"necromancy rarely ends well." - my meek, soft spoken therapist

dear luci, this will be a different kind of letter, so bear with me.

have you ever felt grief? have you ever known a loss so unimaginably painful that even the smallest, most inexplicable thing can render you a sobbing mess within moments? have you ever asked "why? why me? why does it have to be like this?"

if you answered yes to any of these questions, necromancy might be for you. turns out, you do have a say in the grand calculus of the universe. acceptance is for LOSERS. and that's not you. you're a go-getter. when someone tells you "that's impossible" you delight in devoting yourself to proving them wrong.

this practical guide will lay out in detail all the steps you need to violently awaken your loved one from the eternal slumber, and bring them right back into your arms.

you will need:

you ought to be sick to death (no pun intended) of lying down and taking all the shrapnel life sends your way. and now you're ready.

step one: prepare your summoning circle. ideally in a spacious enclosed environment. mark out your pentagram with chalk (remember, that's 5 points. any more and you've probably drawn the Star of David) and place a candle on each point.

step two: between each candle, place some items imbued with psychic energy that evokes the presence of your loved one. their half-used shampoo bottle you couldn't bear to throw out, a Polaroid of that day you went to the Botanic gardens— anything works.

step three: place a talisman in the centre of the star. a crystal, perhaps.

step four: the sacrifice. now, this sounds a bit daunting, I know, but it's far less dramatic than you think. bringing someone back to life requires an equal exchange of energy from the necromancer. this must be irreplaceable and cherished. perhaps it's your fondest memory, or the teddy bear you loved as a child, whatever the case, losing it must fundamentally alter you as a person. but hey, gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelette, you feel?

step five: begin chanting your incantations. these will also depend on the user. try chanting the name of your desired person!

step six: if you've followed this guide properly, everything should have gone smoothly! enjoy! you now have dominion over life and death. nature bends to your will.

but it doesn't feel right, does it. after you lost them, you tried to figure out what to do. moving on felt wrong. repulsive. insulting. how can you just move on from that? how can you accept something so unacceptable? and so you decided not to. and now you're sitting here in your garage, in a makeshift chalk shrine that would make any teenage Wiccan scoff, surrounded by everything they left behind.

it didn't work.

you start to sob. you feel like an idiot dressed in a spooky robe. you curse God. you curse the Universe. you bombard every deity, every force of nature, every higher power you can think of with a string of uninterrupted expletives. how could they take them from you. if it comes to living without them, and not living at all, the latter feels more enticing. you don't even remember how to live without them.

in your frenzy, you knock one of your candles over. the corner of a Polaroid you used in the ritual catches alight, and you scramble desperately to extinguish it, as if your life depends on it. you look at the photo, singed at the edge. you see them smile. you see the love in their eyes. you start to cry again. but it's not anger or the desperation that you feel: it's grief. it's acceptance. it's the heart-rending, world-shattering realisation that you have to go on without them. fuck. they're gone. and i have to keep going. you take that photo and you put it somewhere it cannot be burnt or damaged or haphazardly used in a necromantic ritual ever again. you keep it safe in your heart.

you treasure the memory. you treasure every impulse, every synapse in your brain that this person altered. and you try to keep going. you hold your grief close, but you decide you're done with being overtaken by it. to grieve is to have loved. and you have loved. what is more powerful than that.

sweet dreams Luci.

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