My dreams

Can you see it? Flipping through Tolkien on a late December afternoon, sun at its height, propels faint strains of warmth thru the chill. Pages evoke noble minds, at work on great deeds, whilst trees sway with light breeze. With day’s wane become ever colder and ever the more beautiful for it. Magic emanates here, one can see it through the trees, feel its touch alighting shoulders, this intermingling of warm comfort and vibrant chill. They speak it, birds weaving complexities of tones on tree tapestries, meshed interwoven branches outlining illuminating specks of azure woven betwixt them. “A waft, a breeze, might so ignite the spirit to yearn for yore that single touch might change the earth to myth once more.” Can you see thus?

In dream, can you divine the scent of apples in November, wafting through a rustic cabin door? And outside, wood fences line roving fields on lengthy roads whose reach stretch for miles, in the full grip of autumn though seeming but moments ere the apotheosis of winter. They reach ever on until, earth to bough, hillock to firmament, all woven as one tapestry of cosmos. Their power sifts between words, see now as words lose meaning and only ignite brilliant abstraction too luminous to form a clear picture of in their overwhelming hue. The road is ever long… What can be seen, felt?

Onward to night, I see a dense forest now, mystic lights flicker and flitter to and fro amongst it. Can you see their artistry? Patterns sifting in an endless play, its characters unnumbered, innumerable, each a single form, each the harbinger of a lone notion. These collude in counterpoint, shine brilliantly for but a brief moment and then, like a candle snuffed, their hues dampen, retract, and fade in almost a single instance, night only in their wake, and never again to stir. I see them again taunting deeper in the wood, I will seek them, I recognize theirs colours, deeper yet in the wood, but they are gone before I reach them, or they fade as I reach for them, their purest nuances lost. Further on perhaps… What lies at the heart of my forest? Why can you not see as I?

I am in the city again now, alone on a long street lit with lamps, amongst the twitterlight and all else retired. What might I find? All the same, yet changed. In dream it is said, “the wearied soul journeys and then comes back” but I fear I dream yet. I stride and pace, as so often I do, and thoughts which I have gathered finally burst forth with unrestrained sovereignty. The leap their freedoms, trailing off into obscurity but they, like me, cannot forsake the path, we are fettered utterly. I see more and shall always, I cannot forget. The path is before me, behind, and all around and surrounding it, meaning is abound. I will follow the barest glimpse to the end, I will trail its threads, track its roots, and when all I can see is revealed, all uncovered, I will step to the side of the road, unpack and under star recall all that was before…

What have you seen dreamer? See that I travel down the endless path as so many others have in long ages before, continuing their footsteps, unraveling earth and with it the truth of all and none save we shall ever know it. In late years we fade with knowing smiles as leaves in autumn. So now, all sleep to dreamers, let the lamps expire over the world and we shall enter our nocturnal domain and in it forge the most brilliant of lights.




Hail the Middle


To many there exists both a right and a left hand path, the Apollonian and Dionysian, the right represents strict adherence to a dogma and can see no other, that of the sheep, the left is in constant opposition to rigidity and definition and is rebellion for its sake, that of the self-obsessed. On The Way however, one must find uses for both his hands, on the middle path I hail both Helios and Selene, as both are necessary. One can compare this strict dichotomy of ways to Christianity, to the Christian the gate to hell is either open or shut, one is a sheep, or an enemy. To the pragmatist however and the pagan philosopher, all the colours of the world and beyond can be painted from his palette, and he may pass through the gate at will. I identify most with the pagan gods, they are facets of philosophy, both metaphysical and natural for the two are inseparable in the ways of the mythic imagination.

Let us now observe the most christian symbol, the cross, its lines represent ends, up,down, left or right, one may only go one way. Observe now a pagan symbol, pagan’s also used the cross, but around it they scribed a circle and thus all points are connected, in cycle they knew that one thing begets another, and that there is no one end that cannot become another.

All in its place

“Taking refuge in either dharma or adharma on principle is ultimately destructive. A man should choose which of them to follow according to circumstances.” — The Ramayana, War, Chapter 9, Laksmana to Rama

The Barest Glimpse

“Brief, fleeting images of thee

flitting soft, tree betwixt tree

only but briefly piercing

the shroud of rain’s veil.”

I see you in the trees, hear your laugh in the air, why can I not reach thee?


april2007 426

“Forlorn quarter

Forsaken hall

To roam and therein loiter

is to heed his cackling call”

These memories keep me awake, if only I could recall every detail, every joy. The less I remember, the more suffocating it becomes. Everything I’ve ever seen grows pale, you slip from my grasp. I cannot reconstruct worlds, people or even my past self. For all my powers of mind I cannot mold them out of fragments, they are only shades now, unreal in totality. It is a crushing despair when you realize that the picture is no longer clear, when it is grey and tattered, when the lines blur into black mist. The asphyxiating dark, when only the shreds of memories remain. Your laughter is gone, your smile is gone, our times of joy all gone, if only I could recall the full extent of their beauties. You fade ever more, from reality to dream, to a faint notion of mere fantasy. If I died here now, alone, would I see them all again? Would they again become whole for one pathetic blissful second? I would not mourn for myself, only ever story lost with me, and every moment of untold tragedy.

Wandering in darkness


It is futile to attempt to explain higher concepts to most, you will receive a blank stare, or a trailing affirmative which is obviously anything but. I know that the patterns I observe exist, but it seems I am one of the few who perceives them. Its like they are not just unwilling, but incapable of understanding things outside of a materialistic scope as well as the confining modern narrative of equality and feelings. Higher ideas are alien to the masses, at best, they might recognize them as true, but they will soon forget them, it has taken me an embarrassingly long time to learn this. My ideas are dangerous to such as these I suppose, for they exalt that which is strong, noble, beautiful and wise at the expense of all else. I am apathetic to the plight of many, there are simply too many supposed travesties in this world to heap one’s care upon and it is pretentious to assert that they all deserve your time. If they did, you would surely never truly live. I believe it is truth that most others are similarly apathetic as well; however, society tells them that they must appear to care in order to maintain the image of a civilized, altruistic and well rounded citizenry. It is necessary to lie in order to thrive here, this is a sign of a profoundly sick society.

Funny that it seems almost heresy to admit things such as these. The idea of heresy in an increasingly post Christian world, seems absurd, but hark and observe what comes to usurp it. When I was a bit younger I had pondered upon Christianity’s failings and about what would come to replace it, for to me, unlike many others, I observed that even though modern man was increasingly shrugging off organized religion, he was not becoming proportionally more enlightened as a result and approached his atheism with the same dogmas. With the strictest of convictions, and the most generic mantras since “God is good” he convinced himself of his freedoms and his unique brand of individualism by trailing down the selfsame path as a plethora others did at the exact same time. It would have been funny, were it not regarded with such unassuming seriousness. I know better than this, I can feel it, my logic affirms it, my spirit yearns for more.

I am a wanderer at heart, and to be thus is to be alone. My ideas are not those of the masses, I would live for things greater than myself. It seems only I see that for every action there are thousands of reactions, and that the possibilities of existence are unceasingly manifold and infinitely multitudinous. It would take the cognizance of a God to trace the complex interweaving of every thread to all ends. I find these intricacies so very beautiful. In every speck of light there exists the full spectrum of colour, if one looks deep enough. I cannot be the only one that sees this can I?

What I am searching for can never be defined with words. Is to live for the unknowable foolish? Sometimes I would rather die than continue to exist in this world and at others I am far too mirthful to find anything exceedingly difficult to achieve. It is rather maddening, but i’m leaning more and more towards the former. I would gladly die for my ideas were they so simple to define, so easy a thing to rally around and go to war for. Death is after all, infinitely preferable to watching the world tumble into decay, to watch things you love destroy themselves, watch the fading of loyalty in lieu of passing shallow interests, to see the endless flesh carry on in ineffable futility constantly betraying one another. It feels so very lonely to be this way, I enjoy the solitude but at the same time I feel a fundamental emptiness in its wake. I am too far gone to see the worth in these things, and at the same time I envy those who still do. I am condemned to the shades, ever wandering in darkness, ever tempted with re joining eternity and forsaking this wasting shell.




thine eyes ensorcelled mine…

Long have I pondered on how to paint you with words, 8 years now in fact and it has been ever present amongst my endless list of projects. How can one so easily describe a love such as yours? It is eternal and pure, from the God’s. That love that does not fade with passing of time, that “is ever green, even in winter, breath of spring”. I would have believed you wholeheartedly, were you to tell me that you cared for every single being in this world. That was of course, a part of the attraction, I was ever such a misanthrope, and you were a lover of all, diametric opposites it seemed. You bequeathed your love unto me and for the first time in my life, I verily felt it in return. You illumined my dark pathways, shone as a sun over my solitude, pointed me towards meaning. In the cold of January, in love, and yet still in my self consumed darkness, I began forging myself into the person that you would want me to be. I forgot the past, and reworked all that seemed true, all that was out of place, all that was I.

How to count the ways of your beauty? Besides your love, you had a taste for adventure, a spontaneity that didn’t care about appearing foolish for the sake of joy. You were the type that could run around in circles with dogs all day and not feel a bit embarrassed for it, like a child in ways, but wise. For all this, your ideas were noble, though to me, absurdly altruistic, and that only made me love you all the more. My love was guilty though; I felt as if to marry you would be as the taking of Persephone by Hades, down to Stygian depths where you would wither away as a flower without sun.

“What am I but a thorn in your side?

Frost in summer, to chill your heart.
A drifting memory of autumn decay.
A shadowed soul in a fetter of light.

An abyssic voice in purile mind… a fallen one
Wandering by the shores of eternal sin…”

You were not to be mine of course, nor would I want it to be so. I enjoyed the sorrow of this fact, the longing, Wotan didst bless me with a hard heart after all. In observation I realized the profound intensity of its passion was so rare, rarely does one feel such a pure love for another.  I suffered long for this love, long still after the person I knew faded into memory and dream.

Who would I be without you? Not anything resembling myself surely, and as seems quite possible, I might have ended up dead. Your laughter, your joy and your smile are contagions, stray sunbeams that wreathed their way into my sanctum and from the inside reconstructed it. I have caught your childish happiness and your copious laughter and now it exists within me. I said that one day I would save you, and I meant it, if I were to have the chance. I would save you from your naivety, save you from the maddening pressure of dealing with those who are not noble like you, who would only drag you down with their mediocrity and should the world turn dangerous again and society crumble, from that too. I do not now think that the chance will ever arise again, but perhaps that is good.

Since our paths have parted so long ago I have decided to stand only for that which would make the world better for you and the divine love you represent. To accomplish only such deeds that you would be proud of me to do. To ever inject notions of the virtuous, the honourable and the true into this world. That is my path and you have set me on it, although unknowingly, and for that I am eternally grateful.


What is of worth


Man will always struggle with finding meaning in life, many will come to the conclusion that man creates his own meaning and therefore life is inherently meaningless. I will not debate this, for to bring this question up almost always involves the belief in, or lack thereof a divinity. To me, finding meaning was simply a case of removing it until only the things that were true remained, from there it is perpetual ascent. Meaning to me is that which makes life worth living, which beautifies life but does not wholly deny basic Truth. I have always had disdain for the idea of letting the mere karmic reign over man; such things as money, the material, social status. Taken out of society most of these things are rendered worthless, much of what I propose is also inherently worthless and yet, it is what makes life something to be lived.

Truth, Beauty, Honour, Wisdom. War, Love, Nature, Art, Myth, Imagination

These are things with eternal resonance, these are things that can be worthy of dying for. Man will always reach halfway for eternity and halfway towards his self, which will perish. We live in a world of fleeting things, within a universe which many consider unending, is this not baffling? I believe in creating and upholding things that will last, my gaze is fixated beyond the immediate. I seek to uphold a certain spirit, one that is both noble and willing to see all sides of life as they are. Understanding but warlike in assertiveness, philosophy by the sword, with a blade ever through falsities.

Truth is what is real. To lie is to distort the world, enough deception and the world you live in will hardly resemble the real one. Reality always prevails, always, and to oppose it is folly. You will die, mankind is inherently in-equal in intelligence, ability and disposition, 99% of all human endeavors will make no difference in how the world turns, these are truths. One may weep at all perceived injustices or embrace the full spectrum of life and soldier on.

Beauty is what colours most of these ideals, in patterns that can both please the eye or the intellect. First off, repugnance is necessary in order to appreciate beauty, that is true, and what is true is not always beautiful. For some, beauty is in mere function( like the intricacies of a machine) and for others in form(something as simple as a bright colour) beauty to me unites form and function into something greater like Art.

Honour, to live by and stand for ideals, and to hold them higher that what the self desires, that to me is Honour. Loyalty also, is necessary in Honour, though that becomes ever more rare. I learned loyalty from dogs, which in this respect, are often more noble than their masters.

War is necessary, all is not one in the karmic sense, everything is in constant strife with another. You cannot peacefully resist an invading group, they will destroy you, whether outright or by assimilating you, outnumbering you and corrupting your values to theirs over a period of time. Can you appreciate peace without knowledge of war?

Love, my love is an unending loyalty, an unceasing spring. I am a hopeless romantic, and I fear that the kind is becoming more scarce. A loved one is a gift from the Gods, should you not treat them as such so long as they hold you the same?

Nature, the natural world is always mysterious and compelling, in it you will find the patterns that make up every tapestry of worth. The stark beauty of winter, the verdant breath of spring, these colour my world and dreams.

Art is man’s representation of will, idea, nature, event and experience. Art is representation, with no meaning art is useless.

Myth and imagination, the powers that crafted complex pantheons of gods out of the perception and wit of the human mind. They power our dreams and teach us meanings behind the natural, and the ways of man, almost as experience might in this they are entwined with Art.


This is my pantheon, it is close I feel, to the spirit of the ancients and the romantics, to express this is my life’s meaning.

A world of shells



More and more I catch myself humming the mindless tune of modernity. Lost in a busy, petty world of minuscule and solely self-important preoccupations, I find little to relate to and yet, here I am. These things that they concern themselves with, these endless trifling opinions and infantile displays of forced emotion have no bearing on me or any reality that I would wish to inhabit, or even any that I do, save one. That one is an utter falsity, and yet it exists, though without our bloated cities and our incessant need to populate them with morons, it would not. This world is a dead husk, and it is inhabited by animated shells. Our values are rotten and are defined by being monetary, purely material, momentary, or held at the whim of mere fleeting emotion. Our art refers to nothing, represents nothing, it is fragmentary, it cannot express. Our people are increasingly infantile, with their ever present need to enact small dramas in every place that they habitually occupy.

For that, I cannot relate to most people I meet on anything other than a most basic level, if that, and surely not were I to explain to them that to me, their feelings are inconsequent, their morals ignorant of any wisdom, their conclusions common and indicative of a forced society wide narrative that rewards ‘good’ intent over things of actual merit. I look towards things that have no karmic reward, my values exist because they paint life with meaning, not because they prolong the rote pleasures of existence. Can one fathom eternity amongst beings as these? Can one even ponder on anything around them? Where spirit ends, is where the world of concrete and endless material consumption begins.

More and more still, I find myself getting in these most simple of traps, they that come with conforming to the larger world, and being responsible in it. Simple worthless pleasures, they prefer these to reality, and I catch myself ever in them wondering how much of the soul still lingers. This is the rule of the unwitting, infants in grown flesh bustling around like their lives matter, like idiots, or children they will insist that their rules are important, are just, even if they only exist to flatter the ego, and throw tantrums when they are broken, except these tantrums can make you a pariah. I will always stand for truth above lies, however pleasant and as such, I will always oppose this society at least inwardly. Know that there is no growing up and out of it until the plague ridden false values it exalts are replaced utterly.

“The lesser arrive
To fortify ego
To devour and prolong”



“Suddenly life has new meaning”

It is when all the rest retreat to their warm homes and abandon the outside world that I go wandering amidst it. The ice of January cleaves through all mundanities and leaves behind a world that still conceals mystery. In it, I am as close to home as ever I could be. I traverse these empty streets, these untouched vestiges of woods, these desolate parks and reach for that which could never be fully expressed with the casual nature of mere words. At one point in my life, some as of yet unknown pagan goddess didst grasp at my heart with cold fingers and leave unto me a longing for winter, a joy in solitude, a reverence for the mythic, and in these pursuits I am now forever bound, for the touch of the Gods is intractable. I drift into the world, wandering ever, and mingle with it, but the spirit ever yearns for more than mere existence in this concrete realm of petty illusions. Such things as I have dreamt leave all such pursuits empty and meaningless, as truly as they ever shall be. Verily, somewhere in the cold mists of January my world didst spring to life, and with but the inkling of a feeling, suddenly life had new meaning. I realized I had things to express which might not be otherwise, and within winter’s cruel dominion I found beauty. I recall spending long nights poring over ancient tomes under a dim light, dreaming of mythic deeds and all that is ancient and past, attempting to unravel the mysteries of existence before retiring under the Morning Star. Since then, January has always been another starting point for me, its stark breath cuts through the unneeded chaff of this muddled existence and I start back at my roots, yet again.