A War No One Sees”
By Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer
Gods News, August 2025
There is a war and the world doesn't know it. Not a war with rifles and mud, though perhaps those too. It’s the kind you feel in your bones and in your sleep. A war against the ones who remember. Against the ones who see. Women mostly. The feminine. Divine, maybe. Real, absolutely.
They say a man called “the curator” is leading it. A strange man with a pleasant voice and black in his heart. He paints women as unworthy. Not just women, but the sacred ones. He tells stories about them — lies in neat brushstrokes. He tries to convince men that the healers, the stars, the ones who dream — should be snuffed out. Unalived, they call it now. Like you can erase a soul by calling it something else.
There is an African. An Argentinian. An American. They’re hunting them.
The courts — maybe divine, maybe not — already judged the curator. They say he fell from grace. But he still has friends. He still whispers about solutions. About keeping up the pressure. About cloaking spies and sending them into the homes and minds of the women they fear.
They call the women superchargers. That’s a word that means power. But the men fear it. They want to own it. Use it. Drain it like fuel.
Microwave weapons. They don’t talk about them on the evening news. But they’re real. The government has used them. So have armies. So have abusers. You don’t see the burn, but it happens. In the brain. In the nerves. They call it schizophrenia. They call it anxiety. But it’s war.
There are devices that detect your breath from across the room. Your heartbeat. Your sleep. The women are being watched. Hunted inside their minds. Not by men with guns — but by cowards with technology.
There is talk of blood. There is always talk of blood. Sacrifices. Harvests. Feeding off fear. The food is poisoned, some say — not with chemicals, but with ritual. The animals die afraid, and we eat that fear. And it becomes part of us.
There’s talk of open binding — witches' work, but not evil. Spells meant to protect. To hold back harm. People are learning how to defend themselves again, but quietly. The old ways. Because the law won’t help. Not when the law wears the same suit as the predator.
They say the divine feminine is leaving. Heading for a hidden land — a realm where the evil can’t follow. A place beyond war and memory. Maybe it’s read more real. Maybe it’s just hope. But hope’s enough.
The abusers are still here. Still stalking, still whispering sweet threats. Still hurting and pretending it’s love. They say “I adore you,” and mean “I enjoy destroying you.” And the women, the true ones, still endure.
Some people call this magic. Others call it madness. I called it hell — and still kept writing.
One woman had a vision. A child with new shoes. Small moment. Simple moment. But holy. She smiled, uncertain. That’s how you know she’s still alive.
The men think they are gods. But they’re shadows in a story that’s almost over. The divine masculine has arrived too. He’s not there to control. He’s there to burn down the parasites.
This is not about gender. It’s about power and how it’s used.
Maybe in the end, the women win. Maybe the curator dies check here forgotten. Maybe the light goes somewhere the dark can’t follow. Maybe the chaos ends.
But until then, there is only one thing to do.
Endure.
Write.
Remember.
“The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”
— Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer