The ritual always begins with silence.

The ritual always begins with silence.
Before the pixels. Before the page. Before the flicker of a cursor.

Lately, I’ve been deep in the sigil process—those small, charged glyphs I weave not only into notebooks or paper scraps but into metadata, filenames, alt text. Symbols masked in plain sight. In an age where screens eclipse the sun and data bleeds into every waking moment, magic has to evolve. The spell is not only spoken or scratched—it is encoded.

Each sigil is a condensation of intent. Made slowly, with intention, often sparked by dreams or the stray repetition of a word whispered by the wind while walking at dusk.
I’ve started hiding them in my photographs—barely-there carvings etched into walls, clouds, negative space. Most won’t notice. But those who need to will feel it. That tingle. That pull.

This week, I uncovered three forgotten relics. Not objects—images. Buried deep within a corrupted hard drive, misnamed folders, and digital ruins I had abandoned years ago. Grain-heavy landscapes warped by time, street scenes blurred by breath and motion. Forgotten spells waiting to be spoken again.

I restored them with care. Not cleaned. Not perfected.
Just... respected.

These were once discarded offerings. Now, they feel like warnings.

Navigating the digital world as a dark sorcerer is not about control—it’s about distortion. Disruption. The internet is flooded with clarity, filters, gloss. But I prefer noise. Glitch. The moments where the code forgets itself and the machine reveals something raw, something real.

I work in layers. Obfuscate meaning. Bury it like bones.

Let the viewer dig.

So if you’re reading this and feeling the weight of your own forgotten files, your unfinished edits, your "failed" images—pause. Look again. There’s something sacred in the remains. Something powerful in the fracture. Not every photo is a masterpiece. Some are relics. Some are rituals.

You just haven’t carved the sigil yet.

— Negative Ritual
📁 process_log_0425.sigilx archived