Self Help: Ritual of the new body
(((Before beginning: Dim the lights. Light one candle. Place a bowl of water to your left. Place a stone to your right. Stand barefoot. Feel the floor. Feel the moment.)))
Night gathers.
I step into it.
Bare feet.
Bare truth.
Bare intent.
(Pause. Let the silence thicken.)
I call the old self
to the fire.
I thank him.
I release him.
I let him fall
like dry leaves
to the earth.
(Lift the stone. Hold it like the weight of your past.)
I raise my hands.
I summon change.
Not softly.
Not politely.
But with the force
of a man
claiming his own myth.
I move.
Body waking
like a creature
long asleep.
I run.
I lift.
I sweat.
Each drop
a sacrifice.
Each breath
a spell.
(Touch the water. Let it run across your fingers.)
Unhealthy habits
crumble
like rotten idols.
I break them
with my stride.
With my hunger
for better.
With my refusal
to stay small.
I write
as if the words
are charms.
Ink binding me
to the man
I’m becoming.
I paint
with colours
stolen from dawn.
Shapes rising
like spirits
from the canvas.
I play
to honour joy.
Joy is sacred.
Joy is ritual.
Joy is the god
I forgot
to worship.
I love
with open hands.
Open chest.
Open heart.
Love is the altar
I kneel at
without shame.
(Raise the candle slightly — not high, just enough to glow across your face.)
The moon watches.
The earth listens.
The air shifts.
Something answers.
I feel it.
A pulse.
A spark.
A whisper
from the old gods
saying:
“Begin.”
So I do.
I rise.
I rise again.
I rise until rising
becomes my nature.
Tonight
I carve my future
into the dark.
Tomorrow
I walk into it
with fire
in my breath.
This is ritual.
This is vow.
This is the man
reborn
by his own hands.
(Blow out the candle. End in silence.)
Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2026
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