Cleansing Your Space Isn't About Sage, It's About Telling Things to Piss Off.

A friendly guide to metaphysical eviction, because the universe respects authority, not aromatherapy.

Someone’s just moved into a new apartment, or they’re feeling some “bad vibes,” so they decide to do a “space clearing.”

The scene unfolds with the solemnity of a high-school play. They tie their hair back. They light a thick bundle of white sage—probably ordered from Amazon, harvested by people who couldn't care less about its spiritual properties—and begin to walk a slow, deliberate circuit around their living room. With one hand, they hold the smoldering stick; with the other, they gently waft the smoke into the corners with a feather.

As the smoke curls around their IKEA furniture, they recite a soft, gentle mantra they found on a wellness blog: “I lovingly cleanse this space of all negative energy. Only that which is for my highest and greatest good may remain. Thank you, universe. Namaste.”

They finish, snuff out the sage in a ceramic bowl, take a deep, satisfied breath, and post a picture of the aftermath with the caption #GoodVibesOnly.

And somewhere, in the corner of their room, the lingering psychic funk they were trying to get rid of—or worse, the petty, energy-leeching squatter they didn't even know was there—takes a long, slow drag off the secondhand smoke and has a good laugh.

Because what I just described isn't an exorcism. It's not a banishing. It’s spiritual Febreze.

You’re not solving the problem; you’re just temporarily masking the smell with a more pleasant one. You’re spritzing air freshener in a room with a backed-up toilet. It might feel better for a minute, but the underlying issue remains, and trust me, it’s festering.

I’m here to tell you that true cleansing, the kind that actually works, has nothing to do with being loving, gentle, or polite. It’s not about asking. It’s about telling. It’s about looking the metaphysical mess in your life straight in its non-existent eyes and having the sheer, unadulterated audacity to say, in no uncertain terms, “Get the hell out of my house.”

What Are You Actually Dealing With, Anyway?

Before you start swinging your smoke stick around like a tiny, ineffective knight, you need to understand what you’re up against.

People throw around the term “negative energy” like it’s a single, definable thing. It’s not. The metaphysical gunk that can clog up a space comes in a few distinct flavors.

Knowing the difference is crucial. It’s the difference between needing a mop, a mousetrap, or a SWAT team.

Category 1: The Psychic Stain. This is, by far, the most common issue. It’s not a creature. It’s not a ghost. It’s a residue.

Strong, intense human emotions—rage, grief, deep fear, profound depression—leave an imprint on a place. Think of it like a memory recorded onto the atmosphere of a room. It’s like the lingering smell of cigarette smoke in a cheap motel, long after the smoker has checked out.

You walk in and feel a wave of sadness, or a prickle of old anger, and you mistake it for something present and active.

It’s not. It’s just an echo. It can make you feel bad, sure, but it’s fundamentally passive.

This stuff is relatively easy to clean up. This is your mop-and-bucket job.

Category 2: The Uninvited Roommate. This is a step up. We’re talking about minor, low-level entities.

I mentioned the “ennui-elemental” before. That’s a perfect example.

These things are psychic pests. They’re the metaphysical equivalent of mice, cockroaches, or mildew.

They’re not capital-E Evil. They don't have some grand, malicious plan. They are simple, barely-conscious organisms that are drawn to a food source. And that food source is usually a specific flavor of human emotional energy.

Got a house where a couple fights constantly? You might attract a little parasitic entity that feeds on rage.

Live in a state of constant, low-grade anxiety? You might find something that nibbles on that.

They are pathetic, really. They just hang around, feeding off the scraps, and their presence makes the baseline emotional state of the house even worse, which in turn creates more food for them. It’s a vicious, self-sustaining cycle of psychic squalor.

These are your mousetrap jobs.

Category 3: The Actual Intruder. This is what everyone secretly fears, and what is, thankfully, the rarest.

I’m talking about a sentient, non-human intelligence that has, for its own reasons, decided to take an interest in you or your space. This is not a pest. This is a burglar. It's smart, it has its own agenda, and it is not there by accident. This can range from a garden-variety ghost who’s pissed off you renovated their bathroom, all the way up to something much older and much less human.

If you’re dealing with this, a sage bundle is the equivalent of trying to stop a charging rhino with a strongly worded letter.

This is the SWAT team scenario.

And frankly, if you’re at this level, you are so far out of your league that you shouldn't be trying to handle it yourself anyway.

The good news is, unless you’ve been exceptionally stupid or exceptionally unlucky, you are probably not dealing with this. You’re dealing with stains and mice.

Why Your Gentle Request is a Joke

So let’s go back to the sage. Or the palo santo, or the frankincense, or the blessed salt water.

These tools have a history for a reason. Certain incenses and herbs, when burned, do have properties that can disrupt subtle energy patterns. They create "static" on the psychic airwaves. Salt is a mineral of purification and stasis. It creates barriers.

The tools are not entirely useless.

The problem is how you use them.

The modern, wellness-blog approach to cleansing is based on a fundamental misunderstanding of power. It treats the act as a polite negotiation. It’s rooted in a gentle, almost apologetic request. “I lovingly ask…”

Imagine a squatter has broken into your apartment. He’s eating your food, sleeping in your bed, and leaving dirty socks all over the floor. You would not walk in, light a fragrant candle, and say, “I lovingly invite any presence that is not in alignment with my highest good to please consider departing at its earliest convenience. Namaste.”

You would feel a surge of primal, indignant rage. You would plant your feet, point to the door, and yell, “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! NOW!”

That feeling—that sudden, white-hot, undeniable assertion of ownership and authority—is the single most powerful banishing tool in the universe.

The universe, from the smallest parasitic thought-form to the most ancient, slumbering god, respects one thing above all else: will. Authority. Sovereignty.

When you meekly ask something to leave, you are sending a very clear message: “I am not sure I have the right to make you go.”

You are conceding your own power.

You are approaching the situation as a tenant, hoping the landlord will fix the problem. The entity you’re trying to remove hears this, and it knows, instantly, that you are not a threat. Your fear and uncertainty are a welcome mat. Your polite request is dinner music.

The Principle of Sovereignty: Be the God of Your Apartment

The Verone Method of cleansing isn’t about a specific tool or a fancy ritual. It’s about a state of mind. It’s a full-body, gut-level realization of a single, unshakable truth: This is My Space.

I call it Metaphysical Sovereignty.

Within the physical and energetic boundaries of your home, your will is absolute law. You are the king, the queen, the god, the landlord, the supreme dictator of your living room. What you say goes. No exceptions. No negotiations. Your authority is not up for debate.

This isn't an affirmation you repeat to yourself. It’s a state of being you have to find within yourself. It’s that primal, territorial fire I mentioned before. It’s the feeling of a mother bear defending her cubs. It’s the cold, hard certainty of a bouncer throwing a drunk out of his bar. It’s a feeling that leaves no room for doubt.

You have to know, not just believe, that you have the absolute right to control your environment. This is the weapon. Everything else—the smoke, the salt, the bells, the gestures—is just a focusing tool. It’s a way to give shape and direction to the raw force of your sovereign will.

A Functional Banishing for People Who Are Sick of This Crap

So, you’ve got some bad vibes. You think you’ve got a psychic stain or a pesky energy-mouse. Here’s a simple, bare-bones banishing. Notice that the tool is optional. The will is not.

Step 1: Find Your Spine. Turn off your phone. Turn off the TV. Stand in the middle of your main living space. Close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Now, find that feeling. Reach down deep and locate the part of you that pays the rent or the mortgage. The part that owns the coffee mug on the counter. The part of you that would get pissed if a stranger walked in and put their feet on your couch. Find that inner landlord. That inner bouncer. Stoke that feeling until it’s a cold, hard fire in your gut.

Step 2: The Declaration of Sovereignty. Don’t whisper. Don’t chant. Speak. In a clear, firm, commanding voice that comes from your diaphragm, make a simple declaration of fact. Something like this:

“I am Nathaniel Verone. This is my home. I am the sole authority within these walls. My will is law here. All that is mine is protected. All that is not is now subject to my judgment.”

Feel the truth of it. Let the vibrations of your own voice fill the space and reinforce your claim.

Step 3: The Eviction Notice. Now you move. Go to the furthest corner of your home. If you want to use a tool, now’s the time. Light your sage, ring your bell, hold a bowl of salt water—I don’t care. It’s a prop. The real work is what you’re doing with your will.

Point. Use your finger, your hand, or your ritual tool. Point at the corner and project that cold fire from your gut, out through your arm, and into the space. As you do, give the command. Not a request. A command.

“GET OUT.”

“You are not welcome here. This space is mine.”

“By the authority of my will, I command you to depart.”

Be forceful. Be loud. Be rude. Imagine you are physically shoving an intruder out the door. Move with purpose around the entire perimeter of your home. Every corner, every window, every closet, every door. Push the unwanted energy ahead of you toward your main entrance.

Step 4: Lock the Damn Door. When you’ve pushed everything out the front door, the final step is to seal the thresholds. You just kicked everyone out of the bar; now you lock the doors so they can’t get back in.

Stand at your front door. Visualize a barrier of brilliant, impassable light slamming down over it. Or a wall of fire. Or a sheet of black iron. Whatever feels most absolute and impenetrable to you. As you visualize it, make a final declaration.

“This threshold is sealed. None may enter without my express permission. My home is my own. So it is done.”

Then do the same for every other potential entry point: back doors, windows, even mirrors or large drains if you’re feeling thorough. Lock it all down.

That’s it. The work is done. Notice the active, commanding verbs. Command. Declare. Seal. You are not asking. You are acting.

Be the Landlord, Not the Tenant

Look, I get it. The gentle, loving approach feels nicer. It’s less confrontational. But you are not trying to make friends. You are trying to secure your own damn house.

Stop acting like a timid tenant who’s afraid to bother the landlord about the strange noises in the walls. You are the landlord. This entire space, this entire life, is your property. Act like it. The power was never in the sage bundle or the crystal. It was in your will. It was in your voice. It was in the simple, profound, and often-forgotten authority that comes with declaring something as unequivocally yours.

Now go clean your house. And for my sake, mean it. The things you’re dealing with can smell fear a lot better than you can smell smoke. And I promise you, they find your polite little requests absolutely hilarious.

~ V