The Forge of Doubt

The current trend in Western culture is one that raises up individuality and uniqueness. It seems like everyone is chasing attractiveness and status. There are millions and millions of would-be social influencers. As stand alone statements or even when considering them together as a whole concept, these are things that should be applauded and encouraged. Yet, I can’t help but make note of the lack of consistency and the obvious facades.

A close friend of mine, regularly points to this phenomenon and scowls at it. He’s right to do so. The only flaw that I can find in his analysis, isn’t really an argument against his disgust. You see, I agree with him that the internet is where people go to pretend to be anyone they want. The flaw is that he has limited the scope of his judgement too narrowly. Turns out people are fraudulent by-in-large.

This is not to say, that there aren’t genuine people. I think some genuine people can at times, find themselves being disingenuous. This isn’t really any shocking new observation. However, this is a form of corruption. A corruption that seems to seep deeper and deeper into the collective consciousness. It is not anything new or novel that this “fakeness” is prevalent in the masses. We’ve simply added a few new layers on top of it.

When I consider this in contrast, I’m not surprised to find this rampantly existing, even in self-professed satanists. The internet removes a layer of accountability. Accountability is an idea that has long been eroding and rotting. Anton LaVey was writing about it in the 60’s. Accountability is often framed to be “an owning of your wrong doing”, but that doesn’t really seem to encompass its proper apprehension. What is really being put forth is, an honesty to self. A personal sincerity, void of delusions without intention.

When I was young, I often pondered the stark consistency of LaVey’s philosophy and his character. Old Howie’s detractors often point to all of LaVey’s lavish deceptions. From plagiarism to the embellished and sometimes completely fictitious stories of his past. Certainly there’s no accountability, right? I have to disagree. I find it completely consistent.

A man with a fake name. Telling embellished or possibly false stories. Pushing a meant-to-be sensational “religion” of the secular and rebellious. Charging a membership fee for a “church” against all churches. All while grifting the grifters. Watching those old videos of ritual and ceremony and even the many television interviews, there can be seen a twinkle in the corner of his eye. After all, the devil is a gentlemen, in the words of Shakespeare.

You can see it, simply by observing. There’s a consistency in him. A playful deviance, if you will. A harmony between word and deed. Should he be a liar, then let his lies be bold and outlandish. We then find an inner-resonance of self honesty to balance against it. With the mind of Lucifer, a carefully crafted deception was made to inspire doubt.

LaVey was a proponent of doubt as being paramount to truth. Doubt, the emancipator of minds, bearing the sword of unbridled wisdom. If this is a war for the eternal souls of men, then doubt is the great equalizer. A great many will ask themselves, “Is this a hill worth dying on”.

We are left in contemplation. Are we pretending or is this truly who we are. Is there a consistency between our words and deeds? We realize that, no matter how fortified the castle is; if it’s built on a mountain of sand, it takes but a wave to wash it from the shore.

Live Deliberately!

-Dread Beast Xeno

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Turnskin by Ariadne and Kristos 513

‘Pharaoh is the Bull of the Sky,
who shatters at will,
who lives on the being of every god,
who eats their entrails,
even of those who come with their bodies
full of magic from the Island of Flame’

The Cannibal Hymns of Unas, Utterance 273

Predation upon other organisms for sustenance is not at all uncommon, a harmonious act of violence which facilitates evolution by weeding out those who are unfit to survive, while also ensuring the continued existence and reproduction of those specimens who, by practical demonstration of their ability, have earned the right to survive. The prey organism is typically of a different species, however, this is not always the case, and there are many naturally-occurring instances of cannibalism, such as with the genus of jumping spider known as Portia, which preys on both web-building spiders and its own males after copulation. Portia, despite its diminutive size, shows complex social behaviours and a sort of intelligence one might expect of much larger predators, using particularly devious tactics to lure its prey – other spiders typically several times its own size – into vulnerable positions. Preying on one’s own kind is far from exclusive to the delightfully sinister Portia, and the apes which we share common ancestry with have been observed to carry out very similar acts, albeit in very dissimilar contexts, such as the consumption of infants or, particularly in the case of chimpanzees, the eating of young snatched from other families in very deliberate acts of primal warfare – a precursor to the tribalism they will no doubt later develop.

Humans, for all their moral posturing and delusions of separation from the horrors of the natural world, are not exempt from the above, as both history and its psychic shadow of mythology are rife with instances of cannibalism – the subconscious traces of a ghoulish racial memory, one which is alive and well in the dark corners of the earth, and even within the boundaries of ‘civilised’ society, the forbidden act of consuming human flesh is not unheard of.

Early humans displayed cannibalistic tendencies for largely the same reasons as their ape cousins did – sheer practical need. A body no doubt lure predators to the rest of the tribe, and so it stands to reason that the best and most efficient way to dispose of the material was to eat it, which just so happened to address matters of nutrition as well. While a human body might not be the most ideal source of nutrition, it was remarkably accessible besides, as defending one’s area from invaders would no doubt result in a surplus of freshly killed meat lying about. Furthermore, hunting larger prey is dangerous if done by a group and near-suicidal if done alone, many animals taking quite a bit of abuse from primitive tools before going down, and not before injuring a member of the hunting party or two. A person, however, could be inncapacitied with comparatively little work – a rock in the temple, for example – and yield a sufficient return besides. This type of primitive efficiency is seen in the modern day as well, as various tribes of Papua New Guinea (including the infamous Asmat, who supposedly killed and ate Nelson Rockefeller), Africa, and throughout the Pacific islands.

As human societies grew more complex, evolving from the most rudimentary kinds of proto-culture to something more recognisable, the exact reasons for acts of cannibalism grew more abstract, as there was no longer as immediate a need to capitalise on any and all opportunities to eat, nor was there as much of a need to avoid luring predators with corpses. Many of the tribal cultures still practicing cannibalism do so for magical-religious reasons, such as to take on the power and attributes of a foe – the African warlord humourously known as ‘General Butt-Naked’ is said to have partaken in cannibalism for precisely these reasons! Another good example of post-primitive cannibalism for spiritual reasons more than practical is the practice of the Indian Aghori sect, a Shaivite tradition which has become infamous for its rather morbid rites, including eating the flesh of the recently deceased. However, unlike previously mentioned examples, they do not kill or harm anyone for their strange communion, and such practices are intended for them to truly know God – after all, how can one say they love and respect creation if they only accept the parts which are pleasing to the senses? Are not the deathly and grotesque also a part of nature, and the rot which feeds life? Furthermore, exposure to such unpleasant stimuli takes no small amount of willpower to override a feeling of revulsion towards the act, and it is through willingly taking part in difficult practices, such as eating the recently deceased, that they develop a state of absolute domination over the lesser parts of themselves which might feel fear or disgust.

Almost as if the practice of devouring one another is hard-coded into human nature, cannibalistic acts are not limited to the carnal and fleshy. Ideas are subject to being preyed upon in this way, the growth of mythos rarely, if ever, being a spontaneous phenomenon. As cultures interact with both each other and themselves, their various memes undergo changes to reflect the very real movement of people. Most immediately relatable in a broader Sinister context is the way in which folk European traditions were adapted as the region underwent its conversion to Nazarene practices. Instead of merely erasing the native ways and mythos of a given area, they were instead devoured by the Christian organism and thus, made part of it in such a way as to strengthen the organism and help it to adapt to its environment. This is seen in the transmutation of local deities and spirits from mostly benign entities to ghouls, devils, and evil things which snatch away children and livestock. For example, the Devil in modern popular culture is often shown with decidedly goat-like features in the form of cloven hooves and horns, while also possessing very carnal appetites and a certain mischievous inclination. Imagery of the Devil as an anthropomorphic goat-man is not canonical to any sect of Christianity, and is rather the product of demonising, quite literally, the ancient god Cernunnos, who was worshiped by the Celtic peoples, and similarly, the Fauns, Satyrs, and their lord Pan, who were part of the Hellenic cultures to the southeast. Both Cernunnos and Pan shared a similar horned man-beast appearance, as well as their considerable hunger for all manner of sensual gratification – quite possibly the most literal, archetypal depiction of that which is considered ‘Pagan’ – and so the deities previously revered by a people were ‘cannibalised’ as they transitioned from the old ways to their regional flavour of Christianity. Other folk deities across Europe underwent a similar process, such as the north’s Allfather Odin, who formed the basis for the modern archetypal witch, and also from the north, the underworld place of the dead known as Hel, whose later inclusion in Nazarene mythos is obvious. It was not an outside force that endeavoured to suppress old-world traditions in this way either, but elements within each of the cultures, those who swallowed up their own gods, regurgitating them as the politically necessary devils of a new religious form. As cultures shift into new paradigms, their old ways are consumed, and absorbed into the younger, thus contributing to its growth – not unlike young spiders devouring their mother after birth.

Just as humans prey on their own mythos to create new ones, the mythos themselves also feature instances of people being killed for the purpose of being eaten. In the Greek tale of King Lycaon, for example, the titular king makes a rather foolish attempt at testing Zeus. Lycaon secretly murdered his own son, and then prepared him as a meal for Zeus. Outraged, whether at the moral bankruptcy of the act or the insult to his divine intelligence, or both, Zeus turned Lycaon into a wolf-man as punishment. This story has both literal and symbolic components, as the Greeks found themselves utterly revolted by the savage religious practices of their neighbors, which supposedly included cannibalism, and so their disgust was reflected in their own mythos as a reflection of their societal values. In addition, one of the themes of many Greek myths is that of arrogance. That Zeus chose to react to this one instance implies it was the specific action of a mortal daring to test him which drew his ire, as the practice had obviously predated the Greeks and indeed all of civilisation – where then are the other Lycaonians?

Another instance of like-devouring-like, this time in Latin, involves the figure of Eumolpus within the Satyricon. Unlike the Greek tale of Lycaon, the cannibalism of Eumolpus was not an act of mortal hubris, but one of necessity for financial gain. Eumolpus is an unextraordinary poet posing as a wealthy individual in order to exploit those who might proverbially bend over backwards in order to gain his inheritance, and indeed, all manner of fawning candidates went to great lengths to appease him. Unable to keep up the ruse, Eumolpus has his will read to the gathered ‘inheritors’, which proclaims that, in order to receive any ‘inheritance’ they must eat his dead body in public. Naturally, the condition of being required to eat Eumolpus’ dead body was intended to ward off those who expected what could not be provided, but it also speaks to the mindset of those who would seek out in some way the legacy of their forebears, as they put on all manner of disingenuous fronts and superficial displays in a shallow attempt at courting approval and thus, assurances of inheritance – and the post-mortem division of assets and legacies does indeed resemble the butchery of a carcass, often done ravenously, as though the inheritors were tearing the corpse apart in the street and swallowing great fistfuls of viscera.

How curiously do we come full circle.

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A Gift for the Abyss

The quickening silence onset in the dank hours of midsummer’s heat, then before dawn. A single arm slipped through the black plush comforter, and sought out the unblemished curvatures of the disrobed counterparts with surgically executed barbarism of the erotic intent. Contact fell and coursed like electric; the exchange of subatoms, energy and soul. Then in the rising of the new planetary dominions, William exercised with due diligence his properly enveloped husbandry in overtures of ancient ardor. Therewith, beyond the firmament even those fell messengers which stood watch over his ancestral rural abode were galvanized with fire and enthusiasm by the efforts of he, their fleshbody symbiont.

Waves of dark celestial choruses — persecutive daughters of the dread queen, the Mother of Blood, incised their lips and tongues with fervor as they caressed their dead white skins bound to the extradimension in sapphic embrace. The savagery emblazoned upon those formless intelligences: apprehended by perspectives that bloom from the development of abyssal being, alone. Their pressings pushed furiously upon their muliebribus, on this morning of soft tortures and umbral delights. The air was bloodthirsty, and saturated with rancor, pulled in with all senses of an dark empassioning, envenomed, and offered before an opening of the acausal continuum where that aweful deyonne — the Mother of Blood — waits beyond the mirror’s pane. Many preternatural rains dove then downward: reanimating, compounding, folding, hammering… priming the beautiful felony of an harvest unforgivable, as red candle wax and elixir would flicker between the shadow play of the maligned triptych.

An ocean away, in England, near the boarder of Wales where Arthurian shades still haunt, fissures grew rapidly in the crystalline pyramids that decorated a long since used edifice, hemorrhaging a physical, and yet supernatural exsanguination. Rivulets of vermillion sheen crawled downward the helix design, ebbing in cadence with his pulse, now irregulated by the increasing limitations of his mortal coil’s ever-creeping conclusion. The lonely man, now devoid of even the most infinitesimal capture of significance watched the phenomenon unfold, and with violent onsetting fluxions of clairvoyant-knowing as the omen was understood — or so he thought. For, this was no such message from those who have risen beyond the gate of Saturn. No, this was but a mirage; a contrivance. Sent, not as a work of theatrics, but a sword… or perhaps a cloak and dagger.

Then from the upper cabinet in his kitchenette, the lonely man fingered a small phial of fast acting toxin to then morbidly, and yet, welcomingly, descend the wooden cellar staircase, to which the final darkness called, and this, was no mere contrivance. For there he would consign, as he would dream in waking life, to the oblivion that waited him, patiently, across the span of many decades redolent of multifarious adventures. The edge of the deeps that his descent neared: a mouth of Hell — a hostile pandaemonium, more real and existent for him than any other mortal prior. As so many souls did he guide directly into its chasm; and so many also to its edges, that would never return, for his seduction lingered even in his own absence. Now it, and they who populate its infernal habitation, wanted him as a final, great reward. No expiation remained. Only this last rite of nihilation, by his own hand, and not therefore, by the cruel unfolding of nature. Little did he realize that this dubersome snare had been strewn for quite some time by a vast, complex network of minds, and was swiftly nearing its apocryphal moment.

They couldn’t be any more different if they tried, William and the lonely man. If you were to prick him, William that is, he would have bled the blood the Dark Way, the sigils of its signature, its sacrificial cadence to non-euclidean entities, and for that matter, bled the blood of the Horrible Dragon that now inhabited his earthbound vessel — such things born from transformation into states far beyond human tantamount to dark sorcery; in tandem with deeds of true evil, as that term is commonly understood, manifold in form, continued and continuing in the real world. He did not follow the babblings of the lonely man’s students, whimsically and arbitrarily cycling into random factoid prisms that often have no practical application beyond the pale of fanciful mythoi of which they constantly claimed to have succeeded, notwithstanding their occult baboonery from which a constant sense of self-entitlement therefrom was derived. Nor did he seek their counsel in latter days as celibate oxonians with their perseverations on the purity of esoteric manual-of-form; their confabulations often self contained and coursing with the stink of sycophancy. No, William developed, and learned, and strived in secret, sometimes across the globe, and learned that which one learns in how to instigate permanent changes in consciousness, at the personal level.

And the lonely man? Just a Maniac-Mage, who had long since lost his esoteric empathy, somewhere in the mix of his own reindeer games.

In an unoccupied room within his home, that he shared with his two polyamorous companions, several items had been stored in the afforded space within. Relics smuggled from the Green Damask Room by an unofficial collaborator, as the lonely man had nurtured many an enmity over years of corruption, infighting and shameless self-promotion under a thousand different names. Soil and stones from Black Rhadley, Caer Caradoc, and Wenlock Edge transported overseas, and water bottles filled with the Long Mynd, as well as the river Severn. There were shavings of metal obtained from Post office box #4 in Church Stretton, as well as those from box #700 in Shrewsbury.

Using the skillsets that had once been cultivated, in the beginning, from the lonely man — the Maniac Mage — but then in time, refined and perfected across a willfully striven and individual anados, William sat then cross legged before the affections obtained. The matrix of his being calibrated in sympathetic contact to the defiance of Newtonian physics and a limited space-time dimension. He needed no incantations, no holy names of god or gods, or Satan for that matter, or planetary forces. There where no prayers, or even words that were spoken, only the astral patterning across the web of Wyrd. William at no point fed off of the lonely man. Rather, he fed his own life-force into the cosmic dimension, deconstructing time, and rendering no space between himself and the target of his esoteric emotional operation.

They meant nothing to William: the words, the motions, the correspondences and the incantations. They were only but a means — in the beginning — of a science to be overcome, and wholly intending to self-destruct the primitive mind of the novitiate physis. Much as the ONA itself was always meant to self-destruct in the year 2020eh/ev, as foretold by the classic document Sacramentum Sinistrum. And yet it persisted, for reasons unknown. That its lifeless husk remained — a quandary unanswerable. William’s understanding was that the truth behind the Dark Path, was that, it could merge with anything — a perfect mergence — or merge with nothing at all, remaining nameless therein.

William felt the footfalls upon the sawed stairs undertaken by the Maniac-Mage, as he saw with his own eyes the omen which was projected into his mind, only minutes before. When then he stood in the centre of the pitch black stone cellar, a tomb fit for a lord of this world, the lonely man lifted the phial to his face and examined it. He removed the cork and closed his eyes, feeling the weight of lifetimes stacked upon one another — the loss, the memory, the joy, and all that goes along with the rush that accompanies a sordid recalling and added regret when to dispatch oneself is finalized.

Both William and the Maniac-Mage spoke out loud, joined in darkness.

“To kill a king…” they both said. At which the lonely man lifted and drank the substance into his body. Tears streamed from the eyes of the man, and William’s eyes wept blood, as they both collapsed onto the floor in their respective localities. The man and William convulsed in unison, then into fetal position, and then to soon expire, or at least one of them. At that moment across Terra Firma, twelve individuals fell to the floor, or awoke screaming and fell, ensorrowed for what could only be intuited and not truly known.

But the most cold-hearted and cold warrior machination was embodied and lived by Claire, who was of Amerindian stock, complete with William’s three miscegenated childer, all of a blended, native breed to their home of millennia that reached further back than human memory could assure. When she had traveled to meet with Scotland Yard on official business, the plan had remained ‘open,’ as was discussed and agreed upon prior. That she was to deliver an exercise in fellatio of unforgettable make-and-model to the detective chief superintendent was something that simply fell into place, hair double-braided and exotic as a Pocahontas of the most corrupt professionalism. His no-scalpel vasectomy procedure exempted her from the zygote infused sacrificial conclusion, but her esophagus was sprayed, with wanton accreditation, for a sexual favor most perfectly executed.

With papers signed, a reason cooked up never to be questioned under the critical mass of threatened termination, and the ghastly exhumation occurred. Her skull, being that of the lonely man’s dead lover, replaced with a cheap pewter fabrication purloined from an American vendor, free of charge; credit from a previous blunder honoured. A type of old-world necromancy was in the works, to conclude the epilogos that, even now, begged to be complete. For her death signified his ultimate failure as a human being. Perhaps his attempt at expiation occurred in the maximizing of his earthbound days: with his heart tortured daily and nightly by reflexions upon that burden which surelye cost him his very soul.

Claire entered the room wearing the skull now sawed and threeded to be worn as a mask. In fact, the skull was all that Claire wore, being of a buxom, well endowed hourglass figure. Her distribution of fat cells seemed to hone in, like a heat seeking missile, on those sex organs that stoke the élan vital of the male species. Like a figure from mythology, enskulled and sexually disproportionate, Claire sauntered before the collapsed but rising body of William, arms raised in horror, reflective of the desolate vacuum that was his spiritual essence, now populated by evil spirits in great number sealed into the flesh.

In England, the lonely, dying Mage saw his former lover, or what he believed was her, arrive, dancing around his fading light. She wove between, with her dance, several Dark Ones, who stood watch before the felling, some of which he knew in his life — and some of which he did not. For only some of the dark forces had been cataloged, by him, and by others. Whom he thought was his dead lover’s revenant shade, but truly Claire projecting the necrotic form into his psyche, attached her swaying movements to a particular inter-dimensional being. In the world of the phainomenon, this was William, now broken of one sympathetic contact, and onto the next, wearing a butterfly mask. The custom piece of taxidermy was made of once living fragments of hipparchia semele, known in the United Kingdom as graylings, that which employ a technique known as cryptic coloring: a manner of disguise.

Her derrière fell with violence upon his pelvic region in lustful, circular, backwards thrusts. The lonely man then watched as Noctulius— Lord of Night— entered into her bowels with ascendant sexual hunger. She was taken by him through the forbidden orifice, porta infame, and ravaged with pure animality. Her juttings were accompanied by facial expressions of anguish, fear, and terror untold. Her cries were those of submission — to that of a higher man, a young Lion. The lonely man died, with this, and all that accompanies these visions, as his final constituents, sealing then his eternity into resigned nullification, as Noctulius —Lord of Night— filled his ghostly lover’s cavity with his amaranthine essence.

He died, and died again, or so it seemed — and so it was — for the Nightmares woven this morning were vile and atomizing as befits the reception of a theoretician of terror. For like kind must meet with like kind, in great leagues above all known capacity and expectation. An evil so vast in possibility — an limitless, total evil, unvarnished and unadulterated — the only measure that could be justified in one’s dealings with the Maniac-Mage, and all who are of his ilk.

Some time later in New Jerusalem, Pennsylvania, William and Claire sat closely at their dining room table, playfully stroking limbs beneath the structure against one another. They exchanged glances of mirth and penetrative gazes of deeper meaning. The flutters of eyelashes and whispers that rained glory upon one another came in droves, crossing and colliding both ways. There were plates of meats and glasses of milks set before them, as they proffered then slivers of predatory restriction into each other. Bodies that were in a constant state of ketosis, physically nourishing the thirsty nightsky on a consistent basis, which veiled those lurkers upon the evil tree, basking in the undying flame of the here and now.

Dark and crimson spheres pulsated with life-force. Ghostly shadows unveiled. The seeds of astral tides propitiated, as foretold in elder tomes of antiquity, towards purposes once initiated remain unchanged. A species that would be builded into the real world, capable of breathing her fiery breath into forges that produce principles of iron belief. Kings and Queens who, as terrible lawmakers of preëval lineage, sworn to uncompromising stricture, claw, even now, at the fabric that separates you from the woeful and approaching eventuality.

From the dark recesses of an antechamber, Phaedra flung face first into Claire’s nestled cleft with unbridled berserker rage. The brood of Mactoron howled like jackals before the desert moon, drunk on the blood of an aeonic opfer, and Sodom’s devils rose from an eternity of ruin to rub the dust from their eyes. Blasphemy enthroned, they three drank of the flesh unrestricted; pagan and extramarital in extremis. An heresy unchallenged in propriété privée, voices outstretch in perversion. Nocturnal turgesence traversed backwards and forwards in slick repetition, engorged with the confidence and character that is welcomed into the vulvas myriad which the open expression of desire brings into being, liberated fully from external compunctions.

Phaedra panted as Willam took her deeply — the fullest and deepest ever to be, but her cries would fall upon the deaf winds, as Claire shoved her darling face into the carnage of her yearning cunt. Hot and live seminal fluid blasted Phaedra’s ovaries, once more miscegenating the body of non-Aryan woman.

Anwynn Edgar Thorn

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Immortal Homeland


For most of my life, I have been interested in my own ancestry. There is a certain pride that can be had in knowing exactly where the roots are and how deep they go. So much of us is composed by such things. Yet, we must recognize that this only maps what came before us.

It’s easy to allow yourself to be defined by your heritage. In a very real way, we cannot be separated from the echoes of our forefathers. This leaves two questions unanswered though. Who are we as the individual standing before the world? What will our legacy be?

As you can imagine, these can be difficult questions to answer. Those answers can be received on many different levels. What do I mean by that? Throughout history a small handful of people have left legendary marks upon the world. Some positive and some negative, but history remembers them.

Some have held no impact and were content to go quietly into the night. There are those who have been shadowed by another greater than them during their time. History ignored them despite their achievements. Their bloodline though, it holds onto certain qualities in memory.

This is one path to immortality. What you do and what you stand for, are key in answering the question of who you are. They foreshadow and begin forming the answer of what your legacy will be. It’s important to understand that, like your ancestry, your legacy cannot be the sole focus of your being. Even if the destination is within your line of sight, you must remain aware of your footing upon the path.

Imagine if Thomas Paine had been concerned with these things. Would “Common Sense” hold any sense at all? Paine was focused on what he stood for and was sure of who he was. This is a man whose writings poured fuel on the fires of two revolutions. Love him or hate him, he is now “an immortal”.

One thing of note, no matter where he resided he sought to impact the land he inhabited. This is an act of deep patriotism and a testament to the power of conviction. Patriotism is not simply a fidelity to the Nation-State, but to the people of that land. It’s not enough for us to simply think about the future of our children, we must be concerned for the future of our land.

This can be a very complicated matter to digest. Especially when you are born into a festering of rot and corruption. There are no clear or easy solutions for it. To compound matters, just about the time you get your bearings in what might be beneficial, the rebelliousness of youth is slipping away.

In the times of old, this was remedied by radicalizing through indoctrination of the youth. At the pinnacle of the age of enlightenment, we cross over into an age of wisdom. Through years of practical experience and maturation of comprehension, a clear vision forms. It seems only natural that we would attempt to hasten the process of “enlightening” the youth and guide them to action. Often this is in effort to reach for “immortality”.

Therein lies the fundamental obstacle. Great care must be taken in the work. Too much “foresight” is as dangerous as hindsight. To stand alone upon the claim of heritage, is as pretentious as it comes. Merit that is underserved. Too much focus upon your legacy, often leads to delusions of grandeur. Once again merit that is underserved. Instead focus on your footing, remain within the moment. Remain a patriot to the “people of your land”.

-Live Deliberately

Dread Xeno

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