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That Which is Falling…

“Oh my brothers, am I then cruel? But I say: That which is falling should also be pushed! Everything of today, it is falling, it is decaying- who would support it? But I- want to push it too!”

I rarely take the time to explain my motives, or my personal inner beliefs. However, in light of recent events, I felt that perhaps the time had come to briefly describe my personal understanding of my place in the mythology of my people and tribe. This not exhaustive, and is necessarily basic in order to make it easily comprehended on a surface level.

I do so not out of a desire to apologize or justify, but rather so that people will not misunderstand my reasoning when they attack my brothers and friends for my own personal beliefs.

I believe, firstly, that our world is in the final stages of decay- I mean this word decay on every level that it can be meant. However, when I say final, I believe that time is cyclical, not linear- for lack of eloquence to explain this on a deeper level, I view time and space as interchangeable descriptions of the same principle that cannot be easily understood through one or the other, but must be viewed through the lens of both. Because of this, I believe that all decay gives way to new growth, that what we see in nature exists everywhere, in all things, throughout our conception of Cosmos. Because that which is above is like unto that which is below, our understanding of greater things can be informed in a sort of poetic type of science by our understanding of the smaller things in this reality.

My relationship to mythology is a type of this poetic understanding of universal TRUTHS, not FACTS. My perception of ideas like “gods” and “creation” and so forth, the stories of cosmogony and the peopling of the heavens with characters who typify specific ideals and archetypes, is poetic. I do not BELIEVE in the existence of actual intelligent beings who shape my destiny or pay attention to my brief flickering time here in this reality. However, I do believe that these “beings” are small pieces of a greater puzzle, brief glimpses, shattered pieces of the mind of that All-thing which we call the Cosmos.

Thor, Odin, Fenris, Jormungandr. All elements on a periodic table of spirit, not matter. Small and large clues to the fabric of the universe. Some emulatable archetypes, others massive ideas, “jotunns” of primal concept that the human mind has struggled to break into manageable pieces since we crawled out of the blind chaos of the yawning gap

My utter distaste and disgust for spiritual and religious literalists knows no bounds. Just because your perception of these “godforms” and concepts is childlike, simple, literal, and requires moral black and whites, good and evil, winners and losers, saviors and devils, does not mean that I am bound by similar chains of ignorance.

I ally myself in this age with concepts of ruinous might, chaos and destruction. I do so because the time for “gods” is over/must come again. Those ideas that sweep clean the world, and create space/time in which new/old ideas may once again thrive. I do not cling to concepts of preservation, or protection, because that time/space is not now. But it will be again. This thing must be seen to its end. It must be ridden down into the depths, from whence it can rise again, after the fire of Surtr has burned all things away.

“This is the wind age, the wolf age, and doom is never far off. This is the sword age, the axe age, and many have fallen away. Oaths are forgotten with ease and hearts tremble with fear and despair- few are brave and fewer are wise. But we are bound to these Oaths, and strong of heart.”

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Hail the Victorious Dead

This week, a brother of mine died. I had known him since he was just 15, and in the time between, we were friends, brothers, bandmates and partners in crime. My tribe, his tribe, had our wake for him, in true Wolves fashion, which lasted throughout the entirety of two days and nights. The event culminated in a ritual during which runes were sung, so that even in death, he could find his way back to the wolf-road, and join us again as we wept, and laughed, and loved and fought in his honor.

I woke up today feeling like the last few days had been one long dream, an experience that occurred outside the boundaries of standard reality. As if my life was a train on the tracks, and I was somewhere at a campfire out in the prairie watching it from a distance. I felt washed out, faded and tired from the events of the last few days, and drained from grief. This theme has run the entire thread of my life, and I am no stranger to sorrow and loss.

Discussing our brother’s death was hard, but it reminded us all of an important fact- when we give our lives over to something greater than ourselves, it no longer belongs to us to spend as we choose. That final confrontation with King Death will come when He wills it, but our life belongs to an idea. Our days must be spent thereafter in service to that idea, shaping ourselves, and through will and action, molding ourselves into an archetpye that physically represents that larger concept.

Life is often brutal, and can wear down the best of us, so that in moments of weakness, we may say “there is no purpose,” and succumb to the crushing waves of despair that threaten to drown us forever in empty slumber. But our lives are not ours to give. They belong to our brothers, our tribe, our ancestors, our ideals.

A million million years of mathematical improbability have led to this very moment that I sit here writing this, or you sit here reading it. The combination of our genetic make-up is one that has never happened before, and will never come again- we are the tip of the spear, the leading droplet at the forefront of a waterfall of blood that rushes behind us with power and awful weight.

It becomes our responsibility to not waste this glorious realization. Our destiny is waiting for us, and it should be discovered and seized with strength and power. We must find joy in overcoming, and look at sorrow as a sweet luxury to be tasted like ambrosia in order to remind ourselves that grief for the dead is a grief for how short our time is. To remember that the only thing that matters while our flame briefly burns is that we create a lasting effect on this reality with our deeds, deeds so great they shake the web of Wyrd and alter the world to its foundations. To leave behind us a legacy that matters, that will survive a thousand years, and our names will be spoken by those who come after us, long after our faces are lost to the sands of time- WE LIVE FOREVER.

Some days it becomes more important than others that we remind ourselves of the reasons we exist, and the reasons we must be harder than life, and continue to draw breath. We who subscribe to an idea, and choose to become it, LIVING RUNES in a world of grey banality, will be the legends of tomorrow’s sagas. Hail the victorious dead.

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You Are Not Equal

I don’t know who told you you were special, but you’re not. You exist on a planet filled with swarm upon swarm of human life- breathing, breeding, writhing, warring, building, spreading, rotting. You are a faceless drone in a sea of of faceless drones, so much like the others that your lifestyle will become nearly indistinguishable from millions of human beings. You will be sold the same products, the same music, the same belief of sameness that permeates this entire massive construct.

YOU ARE ALL EQUALS. YOU ARE ALL THE SAME. YOU ARE ALL SPECIAL.

Genetics only count for excuses. You can use them to explain why you are a shuffling puddle of adipose tissue, or why you prefer the gender pronoun “xher,” but not to set yourself apart in the realms of ancestry or culture- depending on what that ancestry is. YOU ARE ONE with the circle of flabby, scabrous hands that surround this rock in a great ring of mediocrity and self-pity, your corpulent bodies oozing putresecence like a field of cancerous meat that goes on forever.

Except, that’s not right is it? That’s the nightmare of the modern world. That’s what they’re looking to sell you. They had your opinions and desires and illusions and distractions pre-packaged and ready to be forced down your gullet from the moment you were born. You are not a human being to them, you are a consumer. A living, breathing statistic of consumption, reproduction, expiration, disintegration. The second you scream your first bloody breath, they are filling your life with commercials, ideas, PRODUCT. Your little eyes are already taking in scenes of life “as it should be” on the great flickering prophet of our age. The television and computer screen have more influence on anyone living in this world than the words of heroes, or the written page.

BUT YOU ARE NOT EQUAL. YOU WERE NOT BORN TO BE A SLAVE, UNLESS THAT IS YOUR DESIRE. UNLESS YOU ARE NOT UP TO THE TASK OF BECOMING A HERO, OR A VILLAIN TO THIS ROTTEN WORLD.

Your lot is not to consume the poisoned grain of modernity, crammed into your feedlot with the rest of those waiting to be slaughtered, hooked up to the Great Machine, your lifeforce feeding it, sustaining it, making it stronger and larger, as you become weaker- a pale, fat, powerless thing. A twisting maggot, its life as futile and meaningless as a worm blindly digging at a bed of iron.

To escape, you must cut away from the feeding tubes. You must become what they fear most:
A MAN WHO DREAMS HIS OWN DREAM. When you awaken from the opiated slumber of Empire, and see with your own eyes what this harlotrous world has done to you, has made of you, you will be overcome for a time with a great wrath. This wrath will feed your becoming, as through the disciplines of Iron and Blood, you forge your mind and body into something your ancestors would recognize as truly human, in all the glory that can imply.

When this wrath flickers, or gutters, that is when the dream-weavers attempt to sink their drugged hooks back into your flesh. When the journey is too arduous, too difficult. When the end of the road can not be seen, or imagined, and weariness overtakes your limbs. “Just for a moment,” you whisper to yourself through cracked, bloody lips, as you lower yourself to the ground for a few fleeting minutes of rest from the Path With No End. Your eyes begin to close, and the hooks feel so comforting. As the sweet toxin of Empire once again flows into your veins, and all the pretty images flood your mind. A heady mixture of mediation, plastic people fucking, laughing, dancing and sporting, all JUST FOR YOU.

This is the easy way, and to be awake is so hard. So lonely, and the reward is so intangible.

AWAKEN!

This “momentary rest” will break you. It will destroy your resolve, as you relapse into the addictions of comfort, laziness, chemical pleasure, illusion after illusion, and finally, an ignoble death. What our ancestors called a “straw death,” you will dribble out your last breath hooked up to a thousand machines and no one will care, because you were nothing, and you died for nothing. Another diseased consumer closing their eyes for the last time in the great industrial farm of this planet Earth, a farm in which you are the cattle, and they, the Feeders, the Bleeders, the Eaters. Your corpse will be fed to the rest, and they will think “how special he was,” for one tiny second, and then your name will be erased from this reality forever.

We cannot give up. We cannot lose hope. We cannot lose heart.

The fight is ongoing, it is brutal, it is continuous, and it is fought within. We are the only casualty of this war, and we cannot afford to lose. There are others fighting as well- and we must find them. We must add our strength to theirs, or be obliterated and forgotten. We must raise not a thousand banners, but one. One awful black flag that signifies our willingness to awaken, to remain awake, and to fight to our last breath for our true freedom

This banner will be seen and it will be reviled. It will be misused by pretenders, and it will be clawed down by those who hate us, because the diseased will always look to infect those who are free of infection. None of this matters, and we cannot allow them to take our banners down. The flag signifies our willingness to clan together, in an age where that very action is dangerous- we must not fear. Our hearts must be pure. Our limbs must be strong. Our actions must match our words, and this is the inner mantra of OPERATION WEREWOLF:

PURE HEARTS. STRONG LIMBS. ACTIONS MATCHING WORDS.

We must become warrior poets, outlaw philosophers, inspired berserks- we cannot be strong only in mind, or only in body. We cannot be stuck preaching with no practice. Our detractors must see an impenetrable wall of power, a shield wall of Courage, Honor, Strength, Mastery that nothing can destroy.

Operation Werewolf is Iron and Blood. Our blood must be clean, not filled with the toxins of modernity. Our blood must be hot with righteous wrath, and the exertion of physical training. We do this with a will of iron, we lift the iron, we have iron in our hearts. Our comrades make us stronger, they do not accept weakness in us, nor we in them, and this is how we prevail. We are merciless with one another, knowing that we cannot abide weak brothers and sisters, and we refuse to be the weakened link in the chain.

Our conquest will settle for nothing less than total war, and total victory

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