Äonischer Beobachter

Heil dem blut The deep primordial wilderness beckons. It’s sinking its claws into your soul, your very being. Can you feel the talons of the ancestral ravens, gnashing and slicing your flesh apart? Soon they’ll have plucked part your body. Bones and all consumed by the beasts and returned to the cycle of life. But your spirit remains for it cannot do anything else. It knows not defeat, it can only persevere. The spirit is undying, wholly metaphysical, wholly Aryan. It should’ve kicked in by now, the immortality of the self. The Id remains even after the corpse has rotted away. It returns to God, and you are reunited. A flash of light! Scorching hot fire sears your very nerves! A wave of great pressure envelops you! You can’t even gasp for air, or perhaps you’re finally breathing for the first time. Colour returns, followed by the other senses. You gaze down at your body but it’s not one you remember. This body is new, still covered in blood and afterbirth. Who are you? Answers are forgotten, knowledge recludes back into the blood demanding to be unlocked anew. All the mysteries you’ve unlocked fade away and suddenly you are gazing out into a completely unknown world. You have never known anything but what you see in front of you. The corpse has rotted away but the spirit perseveres and has chosen a new host. Weg mit der Geschichte.  Heil dem Blut

The crown forged many a year ago behest the long-deceased God-King now lay atop a dark, immensely vast and long-forgotten mountain in the lands where no mere man may venture. Its piercing green gems have been separated from their spots of power, and now, only the carvings of ancient dead languages remain in the crown's ultimate design. No ancient tome may guide one to this treasure of the old gods of the world, nor can any foolish traveler driven by his wanderlust for old treasure and his sense of false antiquity find the crown, for only the reborn God-King with his iron will, may one day rise atop the mountain and claim what's rightfully his. But who is the man for the task? Who is to be the next embodiment of the God-King? Is he born, and if so, where is he? These are not questions that no ridiculous ancient prophecy or spiritual guide can answer. No clock may dictate his arrival, and no idiotic priest can tell when it hits midnight, nay; it is the infinite will of the almighty who tunes the clock to his liking and sets the time to midnight when he believes we are ready. And when he is to come, we, the loyal subjects who never doubted his coming, shall roll on the red carpet stitched by hand from the skin and blood of pretenders and those others who dared to defy his coming rule. On that very day, he shall climb the mountain and reforge the broken down crown with new gold and new gems and toss aside the broken pieces of the supposed old treasure. When he sits on the new throne of skull and bones of his enemies, he shall finally place the crown upon his head and truly begin his reign of cosmic order and violent conquest. We, his loyal and noble followers, shall complete any task he may oblige of us, for that is the only duty we were meant for. And so, comrades, in unison, we yell: The King is dead! Long live the king! Hear ye, hear ye! The King has soared from his shrine. Once again, may the morning star shine!

All this embarrassing woefulness and tiring passing of dead men's tales go against the aspect of ultimate evolution we should strive for. We have no time to worship stick figures and stone carvings, nor should we have any longing for it. No pantheons of the ancient concern us! We intend not to sink into the abyss with the forgotten myth. The old flag has been burnt to ash and trampled; its memory faded from our subconscious like a dull dream. We hail the coming myth that shall radiate to the young souls of our race from the rays of the morning star, cleansing them of the impurities of days bygone. The blood of our ancestors soars in our veins and demands us to walk the path of the leftwards rotating swastika, headed straight for the future! Blood memory awakens with us but does not reveal the truths of history; instead, it shows us a brighter tomorrow where the sun reigns once again uncontested! Forever and ever... Our victory is the end of history

We often so yearn for the Gods of the old, but I am here to present the ultimate question, why do we do so? Many are found to be grasping for the mythos our ancestors held so dear and built their civilizations upon. We see ruins of the temples and palaces; grandiose places of worship that were built for the veneration of these ultimate beings, and the seemingly infinite amount of wars, written down in our history books, that were waged to honor the Gods, and we are encaptivated and enthralled by all of the imagery that is presented to us by these visions of the past. We notice how our race flourished and lived according to nature's eternal ways, disconnected from the absurdities of falsehoods that are so present in our day and age, and are only left to wonder how amazing it all would've been to witness - The great "Oh, what could've been!" We observe the systems of worship that were in place for thousands of years and are still puzzled by their exoteric and esoteric meanings. And as our ancestor's empires fell and their tribes were scattered, we are left to feel bitter about our defeat at the hands of a new form of worship emerging from the levant and spreading through the mediterranean sea like the plague until it breached the thick forests of the north and crossed the Elbe. All that was built up by our forefathers was torn down by foreign invaders or their very own brothers who had offered themselves for their new masters; temples torn down, writings burned, villages sacked, and institutions turned to serve their new lords.  And now all that is left are pieces of wisdom and immaculate stories of Gods and heroes battling titans and demons of the underworld inscribed by our very own enemies. All those adventures have been only etched in our brains from compiled national epics and mere children's stories told by our grandfathers; their true symbology and meaning, however, lay forgotten - lost for millennia. And here we are, still trying to get a glimpse of the lost past and the gods our ancestors toiled so hard for. Many National Socialists live in this lost past. It is a delusional form of escapism that offers very little in the way of spiritual substance and ultimate truth, yet enough to sustain their hunger. They cannot let go because of their sentimentality toward the past. "Oh, why let go of the beliefs of our ancestors? We can always piece it back together and let it flourish." But what truly remains? Shattered glass and smoke and mirrors.  Anything that is truly tangible was passed down by dead men's enemies in faith who held disdain for their heretical idolatry and portrayed it as they wished - and all that was left is a not-too-shallow grave that has been pushing daisies for nearly two millennia, our only view toward it a mere crack in the blinds. Was it also the view of our Führer for us not to reawaken the dreaded cult of the past? He, if anyone knew that what is dead forever, remains so. The emergence of National Socialism brought about an entirely new myth, not of obsessed grave digging, but of evolution, as said by the Führers trusted confidant Alfred Rosenberg: A new myth of Blood. And what of this absolute bitterness towards the triumphant? Sure, we should not subscribe to nor admire the crooked foreign faith of the levant; however, did our race not flourish under it? Did we not enslave the world under this supposed slave morality? Should we, the ones who at least claim to know better, hold absolute hatred toward our racial kin, who hold our very own blood in their veins? No, we should be the ones extending the hand to our brethren! Do we all not have the same goal in mind for our race? And as self-righteous as it might seem, for if we truly know better, we should intend to bring them closer to our worldview of truth. The hypocrisy!

Initiation begins with the problem of all; What am I? For many, their identity is found at its core to be a product of daily routines, religion, intoxication, distraction, political association, disciplines, and morality. This identity, this image of the self is only a means to veil inner darkness; a shroud being laid over so that one can remain in continual motion to avoid confrontation with the self. Those who behave in such a way are prey to themselves, forever fleeing the possibility of fulfilling their potential. Unable to wrestle with this struggle they seek out a new promise of truth, a new association, a new system. They claim in these discoveries to have found further enlightenment, a new tidbit of truth. In reality, what they see is an illusion. They see the semblance of light in the darkness which offers restoration for the will to carry on in their evasions. What they don't know yet, is that the restoration received is only enough to run to the next mirage. In doing so, they run in circles with the sensation of traveling miles. We unfortunately have seen this many circles who claim to be our allies or associates of circumstance. The "Christian Nationalists" who before had been conservatives, which are once before libertarians, and maybe even once before liberals. We see this among the rank and file of pagans, who in truth are all once before disgruntled Christians or some form of atheist. Unfortunately closer, we find circles of "Satanists" who pursue aesthetics, a system without accountability to their race and those who position themselves to ultimately be alone and cut off. Who now are we to call adherents to Truth? Do we prefer those who originate from a cathedral or the woods? Have we not sat in church pews? Calling for God only to hear nothing but a preacher who speaks in affirmation of authority to a caste of slaves? Have we not ventured out to the recesses of nature which you fetishize, only to find nothing but wind pushing through the tree tops? At least in the churches, we grew in; as a result of inheriting said habit, we learned that there is a divine. Although Yahweh is preached from the pulpit; we do not belong to his caste. Then again, in nature, we discovered the impressions of the divine and soon identified the very same within ourselves. However encouraging, all that remained was an empty abode which was all too natural when our interest has always been the supernatural. Do we prefer the closeness of a current system, or prefer that which our people have now lost? We have all fled the mundane. However, is the cost of groveling for divinity worth losing this gift of our blood? Change at the benefit of growth is essential. Those who can grow to settle upon The Truth, embracing it to the point of becoming irrevocable are those to praise. Damn the man who leaps from one belief to the next in pursuit of only enough truth to push on into the next mirage. Hail the man who takes ahold of what Truth they have thus far and refuses to let it go in exchange for another equivalent nugget. These are the men who will break the cycle, abandoning all faiths, and renouncing all hopes because what they seek is self-knowledge. Where there is no turning back, man will be turned to confront himself.

To us, no other world exists. As no other world existed to Caesar, but that of Rome. Our world is what we live and breathe, a quixotic ecstasy of reason and unreason. There is no man dazed in our world, through every transaction of energy he is set in stone. You cannot wash us away, we are the boulders as we are the waves. We are from core to mantle, from mountain to valley. We are grave, ash, and tree. We are fallen autumn leaves and ripe sweet berries. We act always in our world, no action exits our beautiful and dashed reality. We live in die in a never ending book, as mortal pages wither away this book is always expanding. You will never catch us as the simple, we are always yearning for that next trek. You cannot understand, because to us, no other world exists.

You feel it, right? Distant memories escaping your head that just manage to slip away into the starry night every time you come close to catching them - oh, how they fade away so beautifully into the heavens... - these memories burn away from your brain's extensive library, an acute case of amnesia manifest both in your subconscious and reality.  But what, why, am I losing my sanity? No, no, no. You, my friend, are the one torching them; yes, yes, indeed you are. Beginning to realize, eh? The pages are turning yellow, no? Ah - yes certainly - now you see!  You are making room for new ones! Better works, yes? Ha! - you see them already! Spontaneous visions are creeping into your head. BOOM! They are explosive, abstract, multifaceted, and violent waves of shapes and structures, fires rising once again! Just finish of the library already, my friend. Yes, yes. Do I even need a library? No! Just destroy it and cultivate something more divine, don't give in to the katabasis of history that you so used to yearn. An exquisite feeling - ay? A sweet furlough from cataloging forgotten ways, a straight line towards evolution. What are you waiting for? Leap!  Pounce toward the struggle of becoming something greater!