The death of magick

Recently I've come to the realization that the world has become quieter, but not in the "greenhouse" sense of quiet where I can listen to the birds and feel the sun on my skin while the world paralyzes and I feel part of an eternal cycle, quiet in the horrible way of a dead zone. Life feels boring, the days flow like water on a river; wake up, greenhouse, come home, eat, sleep, go to the beach/office, then work/choir, then the weekend arrives... etc. I've stopped listening to music, guitar feels less appealing and everything feels less colorful and exciting as before, even when I am in a better place in terms of health and physical condition.

So I've been wondering why is this happening. 

Is it the old nihil novum sub sole? Is it me growing older? Or maybe it's because my phase of a religious zealot on an epic Odyssey for healing has come to an end (either for the improvement of healing or me  being on a hiatus in that regard)? Has the inner fire that ignited my faith gone away due to dull priests and politically infused sermons? Are the chills gone forever? Am I an apostate? I do not know.

What I do know is that reality, alongside  late stage capitalism and technology, has killed magic and myths altogether; the unknown is just a fear from the dark of our empty rooms at night, the rituals have lost its meaning, the respect for the sacred has banished, and our traditions and culture have been reduced to mere gay-ish paraphernalia to entertain tourists.

 For example, I am a descendant of phoenicians, yet I don't know anything about them besides the fact of them sacrificing people to Baal/Moloch and that they dressed purple clothes. I have archeological evidence of their existence less than 100 meters away from home, and yet my ancestors are complete strangers to me. The flamenco took over the regional music, the sevillan stereotype erased the Urcitanian identity. The rituals are gone, and the possibility of  fortune telling, calling upon fire or heal the ill, are just a remembrance from a distant time. 

I remember my mother carrying me to a wandering healer, that used herbs and magic to heal illnesses and took gifts as payment instead of money. 

Nowadays the healers are gone, the tarot readers are a bunch of women trying to predict if someone wants to ram them, the stars have been clothed under an orange coat of artificial light. 

I do not want to be performing sex rituals to summon demons á la Epstein, but I want to feel that not everything can be reduced to pure opportunity costs and ROI, that there is something beyond productivity and FOMO and anxiety-driven conduct patterns.

Oh, dear magicians of the past, saints from the old and mystics from a forgotten era, how much do I miss you in the grey world I have to call reality.