Bioenergetic phenomena—are they really “just a placebo”? Oh, how easily some throw around that word, as if it explains everything and puts an end to the discussion. But what is a placebo if you dig deeper? Professor Zavyalov called it the hidden magic of the psyche, a trigger for healing through faith and trance. Losev saw it as the work of the soul—a living, pulsating energy that connects us to the unseen world. And this is where the real magic begins.

A placebo is not a dummy pill but a bioenergetic technique as ancient as humanity itself. It’s a spell cast without words, a ritual disguised as the mundane. Take an old witch: she mutters over a pot, throws in herbs, whispers to the wind—and the sick rise as if reborn. “Placebo!” scoff the skeptics, but I see it: a current of energy surged from her hands into his body, through the smoke of the fire and the scent of wormwood. Or a folk healer who “rolls out” illness with an egg—it turns black, while the person brightens. This isn’t just faith—it’s an intertwining of energies, bioenergy rushing like a river, washing darkness from the aura.

And what would Kashpirovsky say? “I don’t heal, I awaken your own power!” he declared, staring into the TV screen as millions caught his gaze. And they did rise from their couches, threw away their crutches—not because of pills, but because of the invisible beam he sent through the screen. Isn’t that magic? Placebo? No, it’s a bioenergetic strike, where the master’s will awakens dormant currents in the body. And Chumak, charging water on camera, insisted: “The energy flows through me, I’m just a conductor.” People drank that water, and their ailments retreated. Skeptics laugh: “Placebo!”—but I ask: if the energy in the jar came alive and flowed into a person, what does it matter what we call it?

Modern life is full of such enchantments, too. A starch pill from a doctor in a white coat—same ritual. You swallow it, and threads stretch from your soul to the ether, mending what was broken. Or coffee from a trendy café: you believe in its “power,” and it comes—the ritual works, the cup in your hands, the aroma, the anticipation. The spirits that once recoiled from electricity now sit in the wires, giggling as we cast spells on ourselves. Kashpirovsky and Chumak proved it: placebo isn’t deception but a key to the biofield, where energy dances to the tune of our will. Speak a charm against pain—and it leaves, because you’ve outplayed it on the subtle plane. Place a mirror against the evil eye—and the shadow recoils, unable to face its own reflection.

Foolishness is not believing in such power, dismissing it as a “dummy.” It’s magic we wield without even knowing it, while demons whisper in the corner, jealous of our blindness.