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What if you were dying?

“He struck a violent blow upon the monster’s head” by C. E. Brock, 1890

If you were told tomorrow that you had one day left to live, what would your first few thoughts be?

Life is a puzzle to be solved, and it’s a tough one. Whether you want to try and ‘solve it’ is entirely up to you, but like it or not, it’s been placed on your table, and there’s a timer. Much like when something is planted in front of you as a child, there is not much likelihood you won’t grab it, feel it, look at it, and sense it in any other way that your curious brain might be so inclined to do. This is an impulse that consciousness imposes upon our mind and flesh. If you don’t believe me, then I ask you to try and remember any important memories under the age of three. In a sense we exist as non-playable entities for quite some time on this planet. I mean, three years to someone who had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness is a long time, and yet nearly all of us must admit—at least to some extent—that we cannot manifest any true first-person meaning from our lives in that state of being, which I say again, is no length of time to scoff at. If you want to go further into this idea, then we need only look at this state we call ‘auto-pilot’. True, it’s not something we all do regularly, but it is legitimate enough for me to say, and then for you to understand what I’m talking about. 

Time is precious, but our true understanding of this only crystalizes the further we move into the uncertain. 

We cannot know everything all at once, in fact various fictional and mythological outlets warn us against too much knowledge too fast. This is not a coincidence. It’s a curious subject for humanity to explore. Especially those who have an inclination for exploring the hidden, or for uncovering new pieces of reality to fit into their artistic vision with the intent to share their boons with the rest of us. It is in this way that man might reenact, or rediscover the Holy Grail, or discover Nirvana. These are not concepts to be indulged alone. These are states and forces that are necessary for us to share with all of those who have not yet found the truth, which in theory is every other living being in that moment of your finest discovery; the revelation of your Philosopher’s Stone.

Forbidden, eldritch, esoteric, mad, schizophrenic, demonic, sacrilegious: these are all terms that decorate our invisible forcefield away from the void, the frontier. These are terms that are dripping in both ambrosia and poison for any man willing to hear them, or stare at them in greater detail than his neighbor or co-worker. 

In many ways this ‘puzzle’ of life is a puzzle in and of itself. To most people alive today, it undergoes a transmutation throughout their calcification process; which is in direct contrast to their ‘answering of the call’. Those who retain the understanding that this is a ride, puzzle, story and myth have a great burden to undergo. They have Pisces up the sword, they have seen through the looking glass, and they have found that their world is entirely different to all of those around them, for most people have almost entirely forgotten this life to be a puzzle at all. In fact, there is a great number of people that have invested a great deal of effort into the negligence of this call to action.

You can solve a Rubik’s cube; we know this because people do it all the time, and it’s fucking annoying if you want to, but don’t know how. You could attempt it for hours and get nowhere. In fact, you could even invoke some sort of primal rage that drives you through time like a bullet shot from a gun… still to no avail; until one day you simply leave it on the counter to collect dust, and it becomes part of your décor, like everything else you have ever purchased with excitement and watched blend in to the mosaic that comforts your blurry tired eyes as you return home from your job: ‘Ah yes, I’m home’. 

But ‘home’ to the vast slew of people who refuse to understand the self, is a rather hollow place indeed. Is it any wonder that the same apartment owned by some city dwelling sycophants would have been akin to a prison to many of our ancestors? Is it any wonder that the analogy and theme throughout Palahniuk’s Fight Club insinuates a sickness residing in the main character’s obsession with home décor? 

But with all hypotheticals aside, there is no doubting that this existence is unabashedly filled with excruciating turmoil outside the walls we call ‘home’. I truly sympathize with those who fear; I mean, the idea of leaving comfort, and certainty behind is entirely unnatural… When we are talking about the comfort of the herd, when we were talking about the animal. It’s easy to corral that which does not think for itself, easier still if that entity believes it knows everything, and that anything beyond is taboo or madness.

Yet, as much as I understand, I cannot abide. Saying ‘no’ to true sentience, gritty sentience, growth-driven sentience, is us caving into fear. ‘Caving in’ is a funny term, right? It’s an act of receding. That’s a concept in direct opposition to ‘venturing‘ or ‘going forth’; additionally, it’s admitting there is nothing you could have done to stop it from happening.I can’t do ___ because ___.’ 

‘No I won’t be able to do _____ until ______ it _______’

To cave is to delve deeper into your cell. At least you get three meals in there, and you are protected by iron bars. 

So, why on earth would we go ‘out there’? Why are some of us mad enough to go ‘beyond the frontier’, especially if we are safe and have things here? As rhetorical as these questions might be, we all understand that this is in fact a driving narrative for how many of our fellow humans walk this earth. I dare you now to ‘go fishing’ in a sense, for the good of experimental observation. The next time you find yourself around anyone who gives off this sort of stagnant aura, I implore you to voice an intention you have for the near future of your life, on how you are going to shape the world, and not be shaped by it. 

This could be a simple ‘I’m going to stop smoking weed’ or as grand as ‘I’m going to become a professional musician’. Depending on the depths those suspects have caved into, you will see a certain type of response. 

‘I’m moving out and going to live in ____ where I have always wanted to live’

“I’m quitting my job in pursuit of ____ job instead’

You are going to be greeted by some strange responses if you have fished in the right areas. 

You will notice that many of these stagnant figures will use the knowledge they have garnered to try and cave you in from within their own self destructive ruins. This isn’t because they are base, and nor are they entirely sheep. It’s because they are trying to forget about that unsolved puzzle, and you just alerted them to its old noises, and its mockingly bright colors. 

What is it that makes them forget? Its not like they are all stupid, in fact many of them are quite the opposite, these are intelligent people we are often talking about, especially the ones that know exactly where to toss their rocks at you. So what is it they rely upon as their ramshackle fortification?



Oh yeah, distractions. Sentience and self-actualization are terrifying, and this terror will often manifest as distractions. It’s so much easier to toss the worm back into the pond and go fight in a crusade, only for the sheepish knight to come back and fight the dragon later. If you are not familiar with this tale, I implore you to read ‘The Lambdon Wyrm’. 

You see, stupidity is low hanging fruit for us who wish to think beyond. Its entirely false to believe all of those who wish to tear you down have not also had the exact same thoughts. Yet, what you might do is what they must fear in order for them to continue on.

More soon. 

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Generation Epimenides

Desolation, from The Course of Empires, by Thomas Cole, 1833

Centuries before Christ, in the fog that separates the border of myth and reality, on the isle of Crete in the Ægean Sea, lived a shepherd named Epimenides. Once, while following the trail of a lost sheep, he took refuge in a cave sacred to the god Zeus, on the slopes of Mount Ida. Weary from the labour of his trade and the exertion of searching for the animal, he lay down and soon fell asleep. When he awoke, he found the day still new, and continued his search. The wayward animal, and the flock from which it wandered, were nowhere to be found. He returned to his father’s farm, sick with shame to know that he had let his family’s livelihood evaporate, only to find that his family too was conspicuously absent. Coming by chance across his younger brother, now old and almost beyond recognition, Epimenides learned that he had slumbered not for an afternoon, but for fifty-seven years. His former life, every shred of what was normal and edifying to him, had evaporated — seemingly randomly. He was left only with the memories of his past, and a gift from the patron god of the cave in which he fell asleep: 

The faculty of prophecy. 

What are you doing right now? Really — sit for a minute, and think about it. What have you done with your day so far? I hope, sincerely, that you’ve spent time today doing something productive. Not productive for the sake of your boss, or productive in the sense that you’ve managed to check off an arbitrary box on your to-do list that makes you feel like you’ve met the expectations of modern society and its collective body of opinions on what “it” happens to be. I hope that you’ve spent time on something edifying to your soul, made an investment of time and effort into a goal that reaches beyond instant gratification at the very least, and even more preferably, into an uncertain future wherein people you will never meet will sit under the shade of the trees you have planted.

For the majority of us in the west, we live a life that has transcended objective chaos. While we all experience the internal hardships that come part and parcel with consciousness, survival in a material sense — the process of exerting oneself over an environment, natural or human, that is blatantly hostile — is no longer an issue. From the dawn of the Industrial Revolution and its more distant economic roots in the mercantilism and burgeoning corporatism of the Early Modern Period, life has slowly been commodified. Life-for-the-sake-of-life has been slowly turned on its head: the principle of individual and collective struggle, the mother of satisfaction and fulfillment, has been replaced with a rolodex of meaningless options to satiate and pacify a body of people who, seemingly by the decade, are content with pacification, and devotion to the twin deities of bread and circuses, at the expense of genuine risk, and the burden of choice. Normal life, normal in the sense that almost every generation of humanity has ever experienced it, has become a commodity. We spend money and time to “disconnect” from the life-support machine of modern society. We drive far too far to spend weekends under stars we no longer know the names of, send videos to our friends of the quaintness of cabins built in harmony with the natural environment, as if this is novelty. We put off marriage and children indefinitely, sometimes to focus on careers that take precedence, other times due to financial instability in a climate where vocation no longer necessarily means expertise or a wage capable of supporting a legacy. Every year the wheel of industry spins faster, and our experiences have become so vastly different from that of our parents and elders that the common human right of hereditary wisdom has been eroded, since granddad doesn’t know how to use an iPhone and doesn’t know what TikTok is. Why bother?

Already in the late 19th century, less than a hundred years after the beginning of the corporatisation of the world, continental philosophers in Europe were sounding the alarm. Existentialists like Kierkegaard and Nietzsche cried out in anguish or triumph for a missing God, scrambling for the athem of some ghost in the machine, or the consequences of His unbeing. Materialist political philosophers like Marx and Engels, their ideas still firmly rooted in the post-Enlightenment modernism of equality, began to pen praxis for the exploited soul beneath the shackles of emerging industry, itself a consequence of the materialism they posited. The acceleration from this period to present has been exponential, and now more than ever, the voices at the vanguard of public life are conspicuously absent in their criticism of the grey stasis that most of us are held in. On the contrary, we are bombarded from all sides by a glistening wall of right-think, and the implied pressures, social or corporeal, that come as an  accessory to its refusal.  “Look into your scrying glass,” the man on the television proclaims, as you instinctively pick up your phone. “Purchase today’s hot item, live the lifestyle, internalise the opinions,” he commands, one stuffed-suit-or-spray-tanned idol, as the case may be, in a constellation of demigods whose mere existence demands our collective attention.

To what end? For whose benefit? Make no mistake: I am writing this article comfortable and warm, my stomach full, as I enjoy my morning coffee. I will not argue against the security that we enjoy or the balm of consumption that we are fortunate enough to take advantage of: only the extent to which it is attainable, and its analgesic nature as a result of our collective obsession with it. The bigger picture demands our attention. The consequences of our collective lifestyle, in a mythopoeic sense, according to the internal and ancient laws of passion and satisfaction, from which no man is free of obligation, is worrying, and requires analysis and specific and judicious action in order to combat the quicksand of modern life. 

Meaning exists in struggle; struggle is the catalyst for meaning. These two concepts stand as pillars at absolute parity with one another, and one cannot be changed without affecting the authenticity of the other. Struggle without the triumph of meaning, of identity, of the righteous ego that stands up as a flame from dim ashes to overcome and incinerate that which would hope to extinguish it, is nothing but base torture. The receipt of a reward with no lead in the soul having been transmuted to gold, is worth nothing in a spiritual sense, is the end game not of the superior man, but of a spoiled child given cake even after behaving poorly. The awareness to understand the yawning chasms that flank the road of the man we might call Halithaz, on one hand the toil of exploitative materialism, and on the other the opiate nature of overindulgent materialism, is the key to breaking the cycle.

Like Epimenides, we have been asleep. We, the generation who have been forged not in the fire, or honed against the stone, but rather raised like cattle fit for slaughter to expect nothing but our “rights” and “privileges” and think never of the trials and responsibilities that earn or defend them, or of our potential to live supramaterially. We are generation Epimenides. Our father’s lot is lost in the deafening murk of a past that we never experienced as the present, our brothers nearly unrecognisable as they wade through the duress of dopamine slavery. Our impetus to live intentionally, to live honourably, has not disappeared, however. It has not been sold, it has not been extinguished. It has not run away like the cattle of our fathers. We, Generation Epimenides, have been endowed with the gift of prophecy. Unlike so many demographics who have come before us, the destructive drug of our present condition has come with the perspective to understand our place in the world not only today, not only in a mythical and symbolic sense, but diachronically too. We understand history, we understand the arc that connects the pastoralism of our forebears to modern life. We can isolate, learn to comprehend, and emulate the values that, cross-culturally, shone meaning into a life that without it would be needlessly violent and beyond pointless, the life of a dumb animal.

With our gift of prophecy, we have the ability to launch ourselves individually, as families, as tribes, and as a cohort of people on earth sharing the same Sisphyean burden of Amazon Prime and happy face stickers, into a world beyond the cosmos, a world enlightened by perennial wisdom untouchable by the shackles of the perfectly planned and curated world of 2022. With our gift of prophecy, we can count ourselves among the generation who, with the wisdom of the past spread out on a silver platter, launches itself into a future once again seasoned with the uncertainty that makes risky life worth living. We can disconnect from the program and launch ourselves like Icarus at eternity, with wings etched with runes, that will not melt. We can and will summit countless peaks, external and internal, in merino wool and sunwheel pendants, in a day that, triumphantly and tragically, the sun may set on again. This gift of prophecy means that we, more than any generation before, are in a position to forge either the destiny we wish to befall us and our descendents, or the chains we will wear in life. This is the best time for the man of action to be alive.

Epimenides, you must only wake up. 

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The Death Cycle

Everything that lives lives on the death of something else. Your own body will be food for something else. Anyone who denies this, anyone who holds back, is out of order. Death is an act of giving.”

― Joseph Campbell

Midway through January and the bitter Manitoban cold has surely been a stern reminder of it. Many of you other fellow North-Dwellers can most certainly relate. The solstice has since passed and the cycle continues. Winter seems to be a rather harsh teacher sometimes. Quite often hardships and strain go hand in hand with the season.

While this week’s article is a rather personal and cathartic one, it has a message I hope everyone can take something from. I aim to inspire, after all. The idea for this week’s article came to me one evening in particular. My shivering hand clutched my pipe as I tried to enjoy a smoke. A windchill of -48 makes that a tad difficult, but alas it planted the seed of inspiration. A concept further cemented in my head by the current turns of fate and the frigid jaws of winter itself. 

Nourishing Destruction. Death and Rebirth. Destruction of something to spur the growth of something else.The serpent devouring its tail, the phoenix from the ash.

To swallow down your own death, and let it birth new life within you. 

:ISA : ASHES : OUROBOROS :

The Isa rune stands front and centre often this time of the year. A very challenging rune at that. It’s very name is “Ice”, and it embodies it. Imagine yourself as a river or creek, once running and flowing. The river is frozen over. The water once in motion now waits, stagnant. 

It shows energy of restriction, of stillness and the lack of movement. As with any rune none are inherently bad or good, however this one truly outlines one of the harsher parts of life we must deal with. 

Oftentimes the harshness of winter and Isa’s cryogenic touch do wonders to slow down our momentum, oftentimes stopping us in our tracks completely. We often very easily succumb to it as well, but it’s not necessarily bad. 

Just as death is the cessation of life in a literal or figurative sense, the freezing over of our river is also a potential to break free. The ice will always melt in the spring, or can be broken by our own means. 

Next we come to the idea of the phoenix. The mythological creature who is reborn anew from it’s own ashes. It achieves new life through its own death. 

The stillness of the ice has us in a state of either a slow trudge or immobile entirely. The reasons for this are entirely down to the individual. Whether tragic, self imposed or thrown upon unjustly, the reasons are there. 

But alas, we need to continue forward. Certain aspects of ourselves must now, for lack of a better term, die. 

As challenging as it may be, it’s a critical step in this collection of ideals I’m getting across here. Certain things may be a massive part of our lives. They may carry a lot of weight whether through nostalgia or memory. Perhaps even by blood, or by friendship. 

It’s seldom an easy task to put major parts of your life to rest. But would you not prefer that as to your total identity crashing and burning entirely? 

Certain dead weight oftentimes must be shed. Some events happen without warning. It is the volatile nature of the human condition. However regardless when those chunks of ourselves are burnt to ash, they can be seen as fertile. A birthplace of the new and the strong, the bird born from the ashes of its former self. 

Where there is death there is rebirth. The serpent devours itself to create itself. 

As it exists in nature. A creature dies, it’s body is broken apart to feed the earth once again. From the nourishing death new life springs from the soil. 

This cycle of death and rebirth exists within ourselves. It is a component to our development in all stages of life. Parts of us die, and are recreated. Elements once dear to us depart and we come back stronger through the struggle. 

The cold stasis we find ourselves in leads to glorious and fiery recreation, to continue on the cycle symbolised by the Ouroboros. 

We are all different. We all have our own demons, our own struggles, and most important our own achievements and badges of honour. I may not know what you’re going through, and I don’t need to. 

You yourself understand the key to growth. The key to new life where the old has grown stagnant and foetid. 

Shake it off, man. Let the old shit burn. A little piece of yourself that needs to die isn’t worth killing yourself over.

Is this the cathartic ramblings of a madman or something more? Perhaps both. 

But I’m already climbing from the ash, and let me tell you, my wings are gonna cleave the skies. 

You’ll become better, friend. I promise you that. 

Now let’s get after it. 

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WÜETUNG DER MYSTERIUM

:𐍅𐍉𐌳𐍃:

Are you familiar with the Goddess of the Harvest? Demeter was her name, as she was known by the ancient Greeks. Demeter presided over the crops and the fertility of land. Her daughter, by Zeus, was named Persephone: a truly intriguing name when compared to the powers of her mother, for the Indo-European roots would demand the meaning to be something akin to ‘female thresher/striker-down or corn/crop’. Thus we have here the relation between growth and thresh, or life and death. 

There are many mysterious aspects to the nature and practice of the various rituals our forebears chose to partake in, but there is one that stands taller, shimmering within the rest like a white pine in its prime. There is one ritual/festival/cult that even enamored the later Roman Empire and many of its greatest names and heroes. The Eleusinian mysteries, a festival or collection of events that took place within the town of Eleusis, which predates even the Greek language and can be assumed to have some connection with the name Elysium (afterlife). The cult that upheld the traditional ritual were predominantly female, and followed a strict flow of events which were said to have mimicked the descent, search, and ascent of Persephone’s capture by her Uncle Hades, God of the underworld. 

Not only does this resonate the same flow of Ragnarök/death of Baldr to all of those who understand, but it should be clear that this is a timeless metaphor for the flow of blood through time. This is the tale and revelation of immortality through one’s bloodline. It parallels the constant flow and care we must give to our crops and livelihoods if we are to continue on. To withstand the trials of earth we must find duty, and we must serve that which serves us. Without crops we have no civilization, no need for time, no strength to protect nor serve those we love. As Zeus the skyfather seeded Demeter, so too must the offspring grow and die, and then be born again, only to die again, etc… 

A crucial aspect of the Eleusínia Mystḗria (Ἐλευσίνια Μυστήρια), was that one must be silent as the priestesses hurled terrible insults at those who passed into their domain, despite one’s social standing beyond the confines of this sacred ground. In the normal world, within the waking world, you might be something —, but here and within the ritual, all were treated as nothing. It is in this way, rituals such as this have a meditative ‘knack’ for cracking our various and surprisingly feeble social constructs; much like ‘sharing is caring’, until a big flu comes along, and then all of a sudden we need to grab as many boxes of cereal as our little pink hands can carry away from the store… but I digress. This practice of ridiculing those who entered the sacred space would obviously be quite a humbling experience for many. It was designed to bruise as many egos as possible, and render those with astronomical wealth and power down to the same social level as all other attendees.

It is said that the rites mimicked the flow of the story, and thus would be extremely grueling and stressful, to the point where many would die. Convulsing was quite common after ingesting this secret elixir,  that was so important to the rites held within Eleusis. This mysterious potion would be passed around, ingested, and the trials would begin by immediately carving off those whose bodies rejected its powers. The almost random effects of those the potion would kill would be enough to throw many of us today into a state of mind that our decadent lives have sheltered us from almost entirely. Thus, once again, the trial demonstrates a deliberate chaos that mimics true equality among humanity, and further buckles us to the whims and mercy of natural selection/ nature. 

There are many theories that have arisen as to what this potion contained, but it is entirely agreed upon that it had psychedelic and poisonous properties which elicited varying results from person to person. It is important to note that Eleusis was an agricultural hotspot, and there is great proof to be found that rye was grown there on the fields of this domain. Rye has a rather daunting potential about it, and grows a mold known as ergot. Ergot is black, and appears to the human eye as a sort of dense sludge which forms on the head of the plant. The mold from corn is considered, even today for the highest classes among humans, to be a delicacy known as ‘smut’. Yet if ergot is ingested in a large enough quantity, it has been known to cause visions, sickness, and even convulsions which in some cases lead to death. 

To the medieval peasantry, the touch of this sludge afflicted thousands. It left them bruised and eventually limbless or dead due to its poisoning. ‘Antonius fire’ or ‘The fire of Saint Antonius’ was the name given to this affliction. An interested juxtaposition, indeed when contrasted with Ergot’s importance to the decadent rituals of mystic Greece. The bane of the peasants was the height of aristocratic inspiration. 

Great men and women from throughout ancient history would visit the fields of Eleusis and return to their daily lives with a notable vigor or ‘aura’ about them. In fact this can be taken as far as to say that once they return they were notable greater individuals, and were propelled into events which more or less made them known in the history books. Julius Caesar can be noted among them, as can Alexandros The Great. 

The mystery manifests itself in strange places and people for all time. 

To the Germanics, we see Baldr as he sits upon his throne of ash at the top of the world tree in a very similar light. The Ash is the ANSUZ, and the ANSUZ is the inspiration at the end of all things. The estuary has formed from the larger body of water and now carves its own path away from the ‘always has been’. The youth use this power as a means to ‘go their own way’ and they sit atop the highest point in the land and understand it all amidst the chaos, after all the dross has been burned away. 

Coal-black char descending like ravens black; quick like rushing shadows. 

I AM THE SPEAR THAT GUIDES THE WAY
THE EDGE OF GAR THAT DOES NOT SWAY

Where the peasantry burns at the mere touch, one might be rewarded in being mad enough to ingest the black rot. This is the trial of death and the healing. There is nothing more mysterious than those places others dare not go. 

Above all Gods did the Germanic people crown ‘The Rage’ as King over all. Not the sky but the storm. Not the thunder, but the madness found within. There are gods of steel, war, harvest, sex, sea, mud, earth, and sky. But there is nothing more ferocious and all knowing than the mysterious frenzy. The Christians saw all gods and made them bow to the TRUTH, but that truth was an answer. So clean was the answer, so satisfyingly simple. But life and death is anything but. We are, all of us, animals waiting to die. Despite what we cling to, despite what we acquire and accumulate, we are all of us beasts that have made ourselves something more through the heroin of this TRUTH.

I have a truth for you, and it is that we know nothing more than the mystery. That is where you will find your god, beast. It is ugly, formless, inspiring and terrible. As if on a rollercoaster with no safety belt do we ride up and down, around and around, until we fly from the seat into the unknown from whence we came, crying and naked from our mothers’ portals. And there is nothing more beautiful and Godlike on this earth aside from that fact; that joke, that lonesome truth. The holy mystery is always around, and if you choose to pretend, and fend it off with your feeble amygdala, then you will never know God on earth, nor after. 

Those grail-knights that seek the mysterious belong to he, Wüetung Der Mysterium. It is by this name that we children of this era should know Wodanaz. Is it not so very clear to you that he is the shepherd of goats? Do you not see that he seeks you out and demands your company? ‘With words of madness, and water of fire’. The Allfather is the ergot that poisons those that dare drink from his well without the proper level of madness to traverse through the poison and reach greatness upon the distant shore. His favors wear no armor, and speak no tongue of man. ’Static is the common language’ to those who have thoughts like hammers. 

Art is the language and weaponry of true magicians, those undead amidst this fetid world. They are those that would dare create where no one asked for creation. In a world where everyone and their mothers considers themselves artists, the true seekers understand that it is time to create new paths. You have created nothing of worth unless it turns the heads of those sound-minded buffoons who would find comfort in spiritual chastity: monks that tend to the idol known as ‘watercooler’, where they might discuss games and weather. You will find true art on the lips of these sheep as they whip it with forked tongues and scorn. 

Any time you wish to think rationally, and follow the more ‘logical’ path towards anything you wish to create, smack yourself in the balls and remember that you only have them for a fleeting moment in time and space. So start using them, and forget about all rational thought. Remember the paths you saw goblins laughing upon as a child. Remember where you saw a path that led off deep into the unknown trees of your local forest, and prey there. Sit for a moment amidst the stones of broken logic and find the fungi of madness as your mind wanders home towards Wüetung Der Mysterium, and you will find God quicker than you could say ‘I don’t care who else understands’. 

Drugs are the modern man’s key, crutch and excuse to become childish again, and most would rather be high than put in the legwork themselves. But there is nothing stopping you from being that mad without psychedelics either. Nothing rather than your own brain that has created henchmen to Yaldaboth within; they guard the spring of youth from you. If you are anything like me, whenever you find the breadcrumb trail that leads back to the madness and fantasy I could so easily find in my youth, you often find that something stops you from drifting into that realm now. I have often discussed with colleagues that this is most definitely brought on through the loss of virginity, or the pubecent bomb which replaces goblins with tits and cunt. 

Oftentimes I wonder if we are truly never meant to return, lest we find ourselves drifting into madness without even a small anchor within this world for us to use that madness to our advantage. For when I say ‘return there’ it is not as a means to escape from the hell we live amongst. But rather, to find the holy rail that we so often drank from as children, and bring its potions and powers into this world with us now. Not an escape, as it is seen to the soulless masses but a weapon of incomprehensible ability to all those who do not live amidst the splendor of Wüetung Der Mysterium’s great powers and majesty. 

It is of utmost importance for us to build our bodies into titanous machines that are capable of ripping the heads from evil torsos. It is important for us to learn the logical and temperamental skills of our forefathers also. But as children of Wüetung Der Mysterium we have the highest duty to uphold and that is to cast off the disguise of human flesh and become powerful and barbarous berserkers that are capable of wielding a magic that all others believe impossible. It is not enough to bench press and eat well. It is not enough to read and understand the philosophies that repel us away from the weakness of modern life. It is mandatory that we discover the ancient passageways which only children know. We must become immortal through magic and wonder, and rediscover the land of elves if we are to become something more, and something of a force to be reckoned with against our most mortal foes. 

They wield horrible magic that must be undone and can only be undone through true art and madness. We possess the key, we need only turn the lock.