To seek the throne is to be ruled by it. The Buddha, sitting beneath the Bodhi Tree, did not slay Mara, the demon of illusion—he simply refused to engage, and in doing so, unraveled its power.

Storytelling isn’t just about words—it’s about control. It’s about manipulating time, warping perception, seizing the subconscious and dragging it, willingly or not, through an experience that leaves it changed. And comics? Comics are the perfect vehicle for this kind of alchemy.

We have been taught that to be feminine is to be pleasing. That to step into this energy is to become desirable, magnetic, alluring to the opposite sex.

In the darkened corners of myth, literature, and cinema, he waits—the man who sees the wreckage, the chaos, the undeniable fire, and still, he chooses her. The wild, unpredictable, emotionally unhinged woman whose love story is written in destruction. He believes he can save her. Or perhaps, he needs to believe it.

This is the part they don’t tell you: aging is not a decline; it is a transformation. It is stepping into a body no longer willing to be ornamental by necessity. It is no longer playing the role of the maiden, the mother, the seductress, or the unshakable patriarch. It is embracing the part of the story where the individual becomes the seer, the one who carries the weight of knowledge and wears it as armor.

here are moments when the mind feels like it’s ablaze—a raging inferno consuming every rational thought, every shred of tranquility. The fire doesn’t just burn; it devours, searing through memories, hopes, and sense of self until all that remains is a smoldering shadow. In these moments, it feels as though there’s no escape. Every attempt to douse the flames only fans them higher, and the prison of the mind tightens its grip. The walls grow higher, more insurmountable, and the darkness that seeps through the cracks becomes a suffocating presence. This is the chaos of mental struggle—a firestorm that leaves no corner of your psyche untouched.

What if the stories we tell hold the key to navigating our darkest moments? For years, I’ve walked the labyrinth of mental illness, from the dizzying heights of mania to the suffocating depths of depression, where demons clawed at my very soul. In the works of Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung, I found a map—a way to confront the Shadow and uncover meaning within the chaos.

This is a journey of wrestling with the monstrous, finding light in the abyss, and crafting stories that heal. Step into the labyrinth with me, and let’s explore the myths that guide us and the demons that shape us.

This discussion aims to treat Trauma and the Soul as both an educational tool and a path to self-reflection. Whether you’re reading alone or with a group, this post will guide you through the book’s core themes and offer prompts to deepen your journey. Together, we’ll navigate the interplay between trauma and transformation, uncovering how the light of the soul emerges from its most fractured places.

Why does anyone study myths? Because they reveal the truths we can’t see on our own. They remind us that our pain, our struggles, are not new. We are not alone. Myths are bridges between the past and the present, between the visible and the hidden, showing us that the gods and monsters we read about are reflections of ourselves.

Alan Watts once said, “The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.” It sounds easy, doesn’t it? But if you’ve ever been dragged into the depths by the chaos of your own mind, you know that just “being alive” can feel like fighting a dragon with no sword, no armor—just your raw, trembling will.

Joseph Campbell taught us that myths reflect universal truths, and Carl Jung showed us that these truths reside in our psyche, in the archetypes that shape our thoughts and actions. In The Chaos of Lucifer, those archetypes play out in every character, every choice. Lola’s rebellion against Novus Dei isn’t just external—it’s an internal struggle with power, identity, and the cost of her own humanity.