Sunday, 7 February 2016


I decided to become a mystic, possibly even a mystick.

Being a mystick[1] is pretty straightforward. My disciples travel from many miles away after which they get to ask me a profound question. Not, like, ‘Where’s Tesco?’ or ‘Can you spare some change for a tincture of laudanum?’ but rather, ‘What the fuck does anything mean? So far, I’ve drawn a complete blank.’

My first response is along the lines of ‘That is a beautiful question; the flame of holiness burns within you,’ or something similarly flaky .

With ego thus stroked, this spiritual journeyperson already has all the answer she wants, but I follow up with an exact answer to the question (this is where science and mystickism[2] meet), for example: ‘The answer to your question already lies within your heart; you just need to discover which aortic ventricle it’s hiding in.’

Mystick mission accomplished.

At the end, as the disciples are leaving, we all Namaste the absolute fuck out of each other.

It’s terribly spiritual.

[1] It just looks more mystical/mystickal.
[2] So that’s why they dropped the ‘k’.

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