There are men who lament the present because it’s not the past they foreseen.
They shun its crass materialism,
its crippling individualism,
abhor its rotting equalitarianism,
fleeing the diseased cities of the servants,
sickened with the stench of their baseness.
Longing to be elsewhere…
an invigorating solitude.
There are men,
the best of them.
Who see History as an agonizingly long burial of the Spirit.
And as It drowns in Time they watch:
eyes wide with horror
the descent of Man into chaos,
and the following procession of foulness:
Lust and Chance as the new Love and the new Reason,
Man as the measure of all things,
Godlessness as Dogma,
Reason trapped alone in science,
Philosophy, a commentary on physics,
Religion as superstition,
Home as a place,
Nature as resources,
The how’s as the whys.
To all these Men.
Hiding in the mountains,
living in the darkness of the woods…
scorning humanity and keeping themselves pure,
I say this,
calling it “Waldgänger" wont make it less cowardly.
For today is the day!
The day before the great wheel stops,
for so long spinning only by inertia
and – finally! – time ends,
turning even our tainted being into a purer nothing…
as time runs out of time
and acceleration becomes history,
We should be remembered of this truth…
There is no protection from becoming.
There’s no truth higher than destruction.
as no Gods were ever higher than Fate.
For all this…
and for the reason of Pride,
We make this last call to you,
Hoping that your soul will do the Black Work that lies ahead…
and needs to get done.
Don’t sail the boats to Hesperyon,
Don’t long for the western shores where the Ancients wait.
Forget the first days,
forget the unity of the beginning,
Forget the chants of the sirens,
although they speak nothing but the truth.
The golden age is dead,
The Gods powerless,
all eternal truths are present lies.
Even our disgust is but affected snobbery when we watch the carnage of the universe.
It’s time to bury the last remnants of the Logos under the crumbling towers of today.
Each second inside us lives the spirit,
it’s a second more this diseased universe lingers on…
regardless of Reason,
Its our being that still gives movement to this corpse.
We’re the maggots in the dead flesh.
must have a stop.
It’s not the decadence of lesser men that is responsible for the grotesquerie of this living carcass.
It is us.
For clinging to the truth,
For not capitulating,
For remaining true…
For being men among ruins,
when we should be the harbingers of destruction,
raising to the ground every last vestige of Spirit.
So that, from that unknowable silence,
where all that is now, will be nothing,
will come something new.
For all this,
I urge you into this crusade against being,
against each other.
To cleanse the world of the old truths,
and bring forth the time before time.
not know, but hope,
for in the darkness of this cesspool there’s no place for knowledge, only faith.
That the cycle begins again,
and that the sacrifice of the Will is not in vain.