A tale of life.

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The paradox of us is also fractal, it is within an individual and expressed in the echoes of the collective. They are so close to one another but the fruit they produce is so different. Passion or principle, hope or a stout heart, fear or wisdom, I could go on and on. These are almost the same. In fact, I have come to realise that in the ocean of endless now, there are no tides pushing us and pulling us, just us burning through life, localising through interaction and being distilled into a slightly different version of one in my peoples great range of archetypes. This play of now versus then is so precisely who we are.

We can enslave ourselves so quickly, to give up the warmth of companionship and resoluteness for an idea of what might be. To abstract the real to forget the past and to believe in predictions to deny the present. There is no future then and so who suffer these never experience life at all. So many people led away from joy into despair by our being forced, no, born into a point who sees only echoes and in turn has to construct the inner universe, a ghost alone in the infinite shell.  Initially, I thought this was a structure to prevent the collapse of the ego when facing mortality but now I see it is all we can do. 

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Cuts and scars became the expected reflection, even stone can be shaped. His work, a fruitless tree called Alla ævi ever growing in a land of the harshest conditions. Useful only as a crow's perch. The failure to find the answer was anguish. His journey thus far had taught him so much, he knew all about the silhouette and all about the detail but his eternal failure to see them as one fuelled the self hatred that stole his confidence. He was at the apex, the hottest point in the crucible. He thought about purpose and found none. He wanted to release the wolves and be devoured. He thought about the costs and the significance of his drive and again his foot took a step.

A struggler alone, phasing in and out of an other's company. He considered every step yet in contrast, the words of the songs that he heard as he passed through chirping birds, angered him at their emptiness. In every mouthful he ate, a wasp's sting. He hated the sound of his footfall, he hated the feeling of the his foot's ball touching the ground. He hated the hand that gripped his heart every time he closed his eyes and he hated that he could not stop it. Freedom was not his.

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He wandered, looking for the root of his unease. What that was, is never clear. What should he do when silhouette and detail are never in the same place? Thoughts of where he could go to find the place where the two are in union, consumed his mind. He searched and searched but it was always just out of his reach. There were times when he remained in a place, captured by beauty or by a day dream but the fire eating away at the chains that kept back the hungry wolves surrounding his control, was always veracious in its burning.

Soon enough, the urgency of his inevitable doom in their bite moved his feet. Again the road was his domain and the horizon that of his sight. He was never able to sleep without the snarls and howls waking him. On he walked. His body demanded service, and his legacy, progeny but he had nothing to offer a companion other the void consuming him. His heart had been won by his need to replace that void with everything. He had to know. Many lives came and went, none able to offer the needful. He burned the memories of his pause as an offering to the fire, to offset its usual desire.

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Act as though you are being judged both by the founders of the enlightenment as well as a future that you would imagine as appreciating your actions as a bridge for those enlightenment values to cross the breadth of time.
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When trauma is at its zenith, does the mind escape into perspective? Does it break if none is found? Does it retreat into self destruction? Is this pain the human forge where poor quality shatters and the fine are given purpose?

The sword is forged and tested, some break in their fragility, while others receive a mirror finish in their new form.

One thing is for certain, the sword will remain raw iron and coal until it is forged.

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So this is the vlog of my trip to Kolovrat where I recorded some of my recent videos. I just followed the timeline of the trip and didn't do much editing.

I might do a better job next time and include things like a kit list and some of the map work that I do before I set off, maybe I will record more seriously with the trip vlog in mind. I will see how it goes.

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https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCN1PoxmTm2reaMl15ksUNzg?view_as=subscriber

Thought & Memory

On what does the bud dwell,
when nature's ambition and anticipation drive it to bloom?
Is it hope and desire?
The future filled with the flowers radiance?
Causality restricts this purity to a few.

A bud of possibility is met with harsh fortune.
Cut from it's fair simplicity by a heavy chord and light.
A moment lasts forever,
the last state of peace and innocence
frozen internally by the severing.
An impossible expectation forces outward growth,
burning the future, a flash of maturity.

The bloom is carried off by the wind.
It is stunning in its contrast.
Blue ice and a hearth's fire,
falls out of motion into obscurity.
It settles in the void, dark and in torment.

The shadow grows accusative,
it mocks the flower, it hates the flower,
it eats the flower, it is the flower.
Unable to move the beauty is swallowed by blackness,
the pricks grow deeper, the piercing more true.
The shadow gains its sacrifice,
the flock of crows grow.

The torture is exquisite,
the shadow knows the flower's desire.
Such perfect knowledge.
Each cut, slow and deliberate.
Being consumed gives her purpose.

The flower remains silent during the pain,
her frozen beginning, beaten and cut.
This is what she deserves.
A broken thing, lost from truth.
She loves the agony, she believes the lie.

The Norns grant chance,
the flower rejects it,
nourishment would grant pain and power.
Pain to the flower, power to the shadow.
The flower is broken, it is not worth redemption,
it forgets causality is its master.

A distant sound enters her consciousness,
as a dream it begins a gentle rhythm,
slowly the ripples grow
and fill her mind enough to wake.
The sound of hooves takes her to hope
The scythe swings at her heart,
the black cloud is thickened,
as the herd of wild horses near.

Fear brings hate upon her,
it builds as a pillar of the universe
thrown to crush her heart.
She watches the spear get closer
acceptance and release is all she desires.
She gives into causality, expecting to die.

The rush of hooves is deafening,
distracting her from subjugation
The sound is a flood that carries her away,
she fights the water, hitting, scratching, biting, hating.
She expects another hole and renewed torture,
she resents her freedom and saviour.

She cannot fight the water, causality is her master.
The torrent leaves her on the well's edge
as it drains into the underworld.
In the well, the water's surface is still and clear.
A world inverted in its reflection.
She sees herself for the first time.

Shocked by the contrast of her fairness
and the cataclysm within,
she looks away, but she saw.
The reflection beckons her attention,
memories of the void pierce, once more.
Thoughts of the world in the reflection
pull at her mind. She looks and sees.

The reflection looks back,
it's a play of intention.
Memories of the future,
thoughts of possibility,
doubts of her worth,
fear at the opportunity.

The reflection accepts her
and ponders her scars,
she stares into hope as the day fades.
Sunset closes the portal
she becomes alone again.
The black returns, she feels at home again.

The crows cry out as they find their sacrifice
alone on the well's edge.
She looks to the water pleading for the opening
she sees nothing but starlight
she feels nothing but cold.
The flock nears and she is humiliated by her hope.

Day breaks and the gateway appears,
the menace is banished by the sun;
the reflection is concerned about her.
It desires to embrace her pain and absorb her tears.
Another day of reflection,
she is afraid of time.

The underworld lives beneath the surface,
the reflection, impossibly thin.
She knows the crows near by the day.
Too afraid to stay,
the harshness of fate's memory
lies about tomorrow,
thoughts and any happiness
met equally by sorrow.

There is no choice,
she knows the payment is due,
as the arrow reaches its target.
Will a gust of wind
sail her into hell?
Will her striking beauty be destroyed by a claw?
Will she jump through the portal?

The angst of the moment is delicious,
a lion watches her; hungry.
He admires the universe
although causality has scarred him.
Beauty is a paradox, he sees through her projected terror.
Memories of his awakening flash as he observes
her transcendence, it inspires self thought.

Never change, little flower.
Remain in your torment,
the cutting winds of self hate
carved you into perfection,
pain has revealed your form,
see it in your reflection.

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Light flows in
a thirsty spark,
greedy for flame.
An inferno,
too cold to be named.

An ice world,
beyond the lightning,
denied meaning.
The goddess turns to ash,
a slave to feeling.

Twinned intensity burns,
their hope leaves famine.
A star in the core,
dropped in the ink
without a call.

The grey fruit is pierced,
the arrow takes flight.
Starving for air.
The blade is forged,
tempered by despair.

The wolf is bleeding
worlds shake,
a waking dream?
Eyes are levelled
to the fate of the stream.

Grasping at shadows,
for a whisper of his kind.
Cold winds,
a dark moon,
serpents drip kills his mind.

Outlook stolen,
the call of the void,
all choice is ended.
Shot into black,
the venom, suspended.

The serpent eats itself,
the child is born,
with scars from the spear.
Suffered perfect patience,
eclipsed by fear.

His chains tighten,
his limbs stretch,
his grin is eager.
In his search for weakness,
truth is near.

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To defend against the diabolical we would need to empathise with them.
The bravery of men to enter the dark, cold, sharp torrent, in the effort to understand it whilst leaving their virtue unmolested, the incorporation of the black dog as your servant. This comes at the cost of many but those that have the ability and opportunity to achieve it will be the guide to lead us through whatever ambush lays in wait.

Times of hope led by men who have none. The forge of walking the knife edge in the realm of chaos, where only one way is left to reach the peace of spirit that these times have robbed us of. Or death to us and ours, now and who might follow.

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Who are these vestigial limbs of liberty and enlightenment values and who seeks to iron out the uncomfortable waves in the tapestry that these individuals create?

The tapestry that once told the story of the development of the mind and emancipation from dogma now serves as a rug to warm the feet of those who seek to remove themselves from the cold bite of reality.

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All credit goes to Varg. He created the song - burzum gullaldr

To have a vision, this grants the door and lock but not the key, assumption as a co ordinate provides aimless wandering, even in the case of a known destination.

The ability to accurately perceive your current position and state is the key, the true starting point from which your map will serve to guide you. The rare strength of not lying to one's self.

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It will not do to lose the perspective of the continuum in the search of individualism and it will not do to lose yourself to the business of the greater family.

Act as though you are being judged both by the founders of the enlightenment as well as a future that you would imagine as appreciating your actions as a bridge for those enlightenment values to cross the breadth of time.

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I shape the wood and the wood shapes me. Every day I shape the wood a little more and every day the wood shapes me a little more. We shape each other over and over until we find our perfect form.

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I speak to the trees, that sleep. To loose their roots and begin to move again. To take the land that belongs to them.

I speak to the stones, the foundations of our walls and strong holds. To be strong again.

And I speak to the wind, to carry my message as far and as wide as it can because this is our land and we will take it back.