For the first ten minutes, it was garbage. “I need coffee. The ward is loud. Why did I say that to that patient?” Then the sentences got stranger. One line kept circling around a moon image, wet and reflective, like The Moon tarot card. It said something about “the body remembers what the mind refuses to name.” That felt less like a spiritual transmission and more like my own psyche nudging me.

I’m not a big Crowley fan. To me he can come across like a guy who dressed every idea in black leather and called it revelation. But I do think automatic writing is a real technique, and I keep coming back to Alan Watts when I need a reality check: the mind isn’t a separate little god in there, it’s the world turning inward. I’d frame it more through Jung than through any occult ego trip. The unconscious isn’t a remote control for the gods, but it is full of material: memories, symbols, unspoken desires, archetypal patterns. When you stop editing, that material leaks out.

For me, it works best when I treat it like a tarot spread for the inner self. I ask a question, write without censoring, then close the notebook and don’t argue with it. The next day I read it back like a card I pulled for myself: what is the image? what is the warning? what is the part of me that wants to be honest? The Moon line didn’t prove anything. It didn’t summon a ghost, and it didn’t make me a mystic. It just made the fog visible. If I’m going to keep doing it, I want to keep it that way: a strange, useful practice, not a proof of anything beyond a very tired nurse’s mind finding its own language.