THE GRAVEYARD 01

HERE we sit sit, in the graveyard of Europe. No
banner lies untattered. No grave undesecrated. A
cornucopia of corpses, some green-eyed, some
blue. And which was the master race again? Who
was it that won the most glory killing white men?
These graves have only grown in size and each new
generation lives ever more in their shadow. What
do these traditionalists even hold on to? Like They
are like a man in despair, who holds cradling his mangled
child. Does
he the man really believe his embrace
could bring back a lifeless thing? Does he not
know that the materialist has disproved magic?
And if there were magic, then surely our world
would have not met such a the cruel fate that befell it
during the 20th century. But perhaps there is magic
magic, and we need only to learn patience.

Why have you come here, rider, to the grave of
your fatherland? Have you come to follow me? Know
that I lead no man, but if you wish to become my
companion then I must make a single request of
you. If we are to take up this task and travel
the all-too-arduous path, then you must promise
me that your eyes will remain transfixed, always always,
on the horizon. There we will chase the Sun. But
of course that is why you are here, is it not?
Surely you must be the child of Goethe Goethe, or are
you nameless, yet named, like me? It does not
matter what we call ourselves, for names and egos
are useless where we are going and our only
interest must be in finding The Purpose. “The
Purpose”, you wonder? Is it not obvious? The
antidote It is
the antidote, to heal our dying world. The answer
to the riddle of the death of God. Surely you
must know of the war that the materialist waged
against the mystic and his god. The materialist
would know
triumph triumph, but it was a Pyrrhic victory.
With the death of the mystic, and not soon long after
so too the vitalists, until the last of the romantics had all
but faded and the world became systematized and
sterile. However, it It was the heart of a Semitic god that
was pierced by the
materialist's arrow, materialist’s arrow; for our
own gods had long been in the tomb; tomb, forgotten. In
truth, it was only the latest deracination.
Should we blame Hume? Should we gnash our teeth
and curse Socrates? Or perhaps we should accept
that they were merely expressing the most Aryan
of all principles. To principles ‐ to look out at the horizon.

Where there was Achilles and or Christ, now there
lies a tenebrous void. As a result of the loss of
objective meaning, we began to sink in into the
Swamps of Sadness by our own volition. A quarter
of our kind have become hedonists and another
quarter have become ascetic. Half of them run on
mere Darwinian survival impulses with no glimpse
into the here and now, with no humanity. But you
must love them all the same, rider. For our task
is to rescue from peril the European continuum.
Look
all around you. These you; these graves mark the history of
this all-too-impressive animal in all its
variance. This hallowed ground covered in Celtic
chain mail, Scythian arrowheads, Roman
legionaries’ scutums, and German battle axes
all serve to remind us of our propensity for
violence. Know this, this: you must never shrink from
violence or join ranks with the humanitarian who
views violence as the feckless and unfashionable.
Violence has always been the side arm sidearm of the
noble. However, this violence must never derive
from the wicked and cruel. wickedness or cruelty. Just as the aim of
the Aryan is to pursue the fundamental truth, so too so,
too, his aptness for war can only be maximized with by
a noble pursuit.

But look at this field, rider. These weapons were
used by white men to impale each other. one another. These
beings with the same capacity to reason, to
develop such lovely arts and novelty, with using the
same eyes to peer into reality, reduced to maggot
feed in their youths. What tragedy it was that we
ever branched apart from that initial
Indo-European
Indo‐European language. Had we only the ability
to communicate. communicate! Had we only the an aerial view of our
tiny existence on this planet, filled with men
and monsters. monsters! What fools the Greeks were to
butcher such pristine beauty during the
Peloponnesian war. War. How could the Spartan not
admire the elaborate Athenian art and philosophy?
How could the Athenian not love the Spartan for
his prowess in battle? Were they not the same
being who had ventured towards on different paths along toward
the horizon, chasing the Sun? Look how that
conflict weakened them both. Even if we peer into
the darkest age, the 20th century, when French,
German, British, etc all British and more, exhausted themselves in
world wars, one we must continue to ask. For ask: for what? To
allow a vampiric Semitic banking system to
dominate the planet? For a field of graves and
banners that no one will even remember? You saw
yourselves as flags and countries, kings and
borders, religions and economic systems, but
never once did you see yourselves as Europe! As
beings with a similar capacity to know. To
advance the knowing. That all of you who now lay lie
dormant in the cold earth, were brothers in at the
apex of the hierarchy of Being. We have been
blind, rider. We have crippled ourselves in the
pursuit of primitive patriotism. A patriotism
built around memetics, a memetics that allows for white men to
impale other white men. What great flag waving,
as the naïve naïve nationalist fire bombs firebombs white women
and children in our ancient cities. What glory do
these primitive patriots seek, when they manifest
propaganda to convince the German that he is not
German and should not wish to be? But we will
force him to be. Like a body that wishes to die,
but is resuscitated by man’s technology, by
man’s will. We will, we will resurrect them back from
the grave. The earth Earth will once more know
Rhodesia, the Yamnaya, Dixie, and the Dorian Dorian, and
they shall know themselves as the Aryan first and
foremost. A single banner will fly amongst them
and they will yield to no one. Look here at this
grave, rider. The grave of a little one of our
kind. Her body ravaged by our own technology at
the hands of a Mohammedan ghoul. Tell me, how
many men that lie here in this mass grave could
know she was born in Stockholm from her face
alone? Could she not just as easily be from
Glasgow, Dallas, Marseille, Marseilles, Berlin or New
Jersey? What a repugnant world view worldview these
primitive patriots maintain. To deny the
unification of beings capable of such a vital
array. For the lightning bolt on our banner will
stand on any European soil. For we are not Irish
or German. We are not Americans or Canadians. We
are a concept. A living ideal. A testament that
says that no matter where on this earth that Earth these
beings stand, there too there, too, will we stand with
them. And if the German says, I “I am German
first and foremost and can never fly under any
banner but my own, own”, then so be it. But know
this, German,
for even if you gnash your teeth and
spit in my face I will not flee from you. Even
when danger looms and the sky turns black with a
torrent of arrows and an infinity of bombs. bombs, I
will stand next to you, sword and shield,
shoulder to shoulder, mind to mind, being to
being.

It is an endless journey that we take up. up, rider.
Each generation carrying our banner to the next.
That is the nature of the European continuum. We
must hold to ourselves both Sparta and Athens,
the farmer and the man of the metropolis, the
rich and the beggars, beggar, the old and the young, the
masculine and the feminine, the Continental and
the Analytic Analytical philosophers. For if our aim is
true, and we ride straight for the Sun, all paths
and all philosophies will merge. The inner world
will meet the outer world. For there in the heart
of the Sun, in its warm embrace, is fundamental
truth. However, they

They are right to say that we will never know
this truth. How absurd that a mere aspect of
Being would be able to take in the totality of
Being.
Being! Like Icarus Icarus, we shall fail in our pursuit.
We pursuit;
we shall plummet down to the earth from the
heavens and break our backs. But even then, as we lay
ruined on the rocks, we will still pursue it.
Our it, our
fractured hands still held out towards the Sun.
We will seek truth regardless of our capacity to
understand. Even if Kant is to say, “all that
we see is an illusion”, then we shall say,
“yet it exists and it must be
pursued!” pursued”! For
even illusions are in the nature of Being.

Now take up your father’s flag and let it serve
as your cloak to keep your pale skin from the
elements. But remember this, this: that cross and those
colors,
colors – even my red, white and blue, blue – can
all be forgotten. Have you not heard? The age of
the traditionalist is over. The conservative is
but a mortician in a morgue. A morgue, a practitioner of
the
grave. Whose grave, whose job it is to fill the corpse
with embalming fluid. To present the carcass as what
it was was, and what it could can never be again. Do not
fool yourself, rider, rider – for we are not
conservatives. We do not merely wish merely to hold on
to the heirlooms of our fathers. To fathers, to sit by by, idly,
as our empires are made irrelevant. I wish for us
to take take, and to take without qualms. But the
modern man, the conservative, is like a de-fanged defanged
lion who is rendered horror-struck horror‐struck at the taste of blood. A blood
‐ a once proud animal now domesticated. In
spite of this, if you choose to join me down this
path, rider, then you will become wild again. The
wild man man, of Alexander of Macedon. The hungry
lion. You will learn to embrace Dionysus and his
chaos, which always brings forth opportunity. For it is
fitting that here in the 21st century, in the age
of chaos, when calamity runs unopposed, that so too in this time so, too,
would we see the rebirth of the Third
Positionist, the Fascist, the National Socialist,
the Romantic Romantic, and the dreamer of dreams. We
should be swift and on our way, for twilight
wanes and if we are to lose track of the Sun we shall only
betray our endeavor. Drink up this place, rider,
but know that nostalgia is poison when consumed
in plenty. excess. Take with you your sword before your shield
shield, and your tenacity before your reason.
Remember that our courage was born in of despair.
Was it not Merkel who compelled you towards this way? When
way, when Europe was made laid open like a flesh wound. A Hündin
wound? She was a Hündin at the head of the
German animal who drove mud and sick into the
very organs of the body politic. That was what
brought me here, rider. My spirit knew only
despair when I learned our heartland would be
lost. That
lost; that Germania would be rendered null. For
the colonies I could bear to lose. Their lose ‐ their
destruction seemed a mere failed project. But to
lose the motherland completely? To have the core
of the continuum mutilated by genetic warfare?
For the
The death of America was only a corruption of a
single branch, but to carve out the very trunk of
Europe? It was then that I donned the lightning
bolt.

A lonely life it can be, to hold lightning and
chase the Sun. It is well if for you to remember
that on our journey, journey there will be monsters which
are
all-too-often all too often terrible, but and that the cruelest
monster you will find, find is the one that you love.
Perhaps friends or family have expelled you from
their lives because your undertaking threatened
their illusions. That is the pain the child of
Goethe must bear. How strange it is to live in a
time when fathers weep that their sons wish to
take up the old banner banner, and mothers encourage
their
daughters' daughters’ genetic degeneration. That When
brother
would sell sells out brother for a taste of
narcotics.
That When a generation of children would be is
raised up in the ashes of the apocolypse apocalypse as
communists and capitalists, with no real
connection to the blood. That When every root would be cut is cut,
and stripped from the tree. Still, Nevertheless we will
love them all the
same. For them, for it is our destiny to bear the
unbearable. To
unbearable, to carry the continuum onward to
whatever end.

No step forward should be undertaken taken until you
thoroughly understand our task. It task: it is not to
restore Beethoven and the Colosseum, only nor to live
under their shadow, but rather to exceed surpass them.
We will not tirelessly endlessly recall when we were once
remarkable, rather rather, we shall be remarkable. Do
you not see that we must shake off this inaction
and venture once more into the wild unknown and unknown, so
that
you too we, too, will become wild? That ever greater
monuments to our experience remain in the stone,
waiting to be carved by Aryan hands. hands? We will not
be content. We content; we will not sit full and satisfied satisfied,
wishing to drift back to sleep, for we ask that
the European animal once again awakens! Even if
upon his returning return to the conscious world, in his
wrath, the sky is turned to fire, the seas dry up
and the earth Earth is scorched permanently, permanently – even
then it will have been worth it. For the fields
of desolation will only shall serve as fertile soil. You
know all too well that destruction is merely creation,
rider.

Tell them, those primitive patriots, that I am
the Sacred Clown, the great iconoclast of
modernity
modernity, and I have come to witness blood and
chaos and finally the regrowth of the European
vine. Let the slave world slave‐world stand aghast that as red
hats would become Stahlhelms. Steel yourself, rider,
for the cruel hatred of this slave world slave‐world
bellows forth to reveal your way. For you to even
be here, in this graveyard of your fathers, has
already marked you. To shed tears for the land
you can not get back return to is tantamount to treason in
this late hour. Now you must bid this place
farewell, like sailors slowly losing track of the
coast. For how else can one voyage? How else can
one follow the Sun if they are incapable of
leaving their homes? Truthfully, I have given up
on motherlands and fatherlands, for geographical
ideals and absurdities. For where my people
stand, that is my state. Whether they were here
on this mountain for a thousand years or there on
that island for two hundred. How could land ever
be as sacred as blood?

A cold wind now blows through these half dead
trees. This place is no longer safe and we must
halt our weeping. Take what you want from here,
rider, but as you know know, that only your flesh is
essential. Only your ability to manifest and
reflect on reality. Only your élan élan vital. Soon
the Semitic tone will ring in our ears once more.
This place will befall fall to black darkness and be made
archaic. All that we can not carry will be lost
to time. Where there was once civilization, there
will be ruin. Legal systems that represented the
pinnacle achievements of our kind, which had been
in the development for eons, will be rewritten by
creatures with the cognitive abilities of
twelve-year-olds.
twelve‐year‐olds. To think that it has come
to such madness. madness! Hurry and gather your supplies,
for only a handful that dwell here will follow you
you, and even less of them know of the jeopardy
that seeks them in this place. In the end, the
tide of the Nothing, that great torrent of black,
will wash away all life that persists. However, decay Decay is a
slow process until its the inevitable total collapse.
The women who remain, remain will be absorbed into the
Afro-Semitic amalgamation
Afro‐Semitic amalgamation, and into the
men‐I‐dare‐not‐call‐men, the
men-I-dare-not-call-men. The
cosmopolitan European, the eunuch. What a friend
to the elite he has become. These, antinatalists but become! These
anti‐natalists for only their own people, men. people; these
“men”.

I get no pleasure from chastising him, such a man,
rider. It is a spell that he is under. He has not
studied our history, and what history he has
learned, was written by Semitic hands. He
believes he is cultured only when he despises our
culture. That But, the more he declares that he is
from the tainted tree,
that the root of which he
himself has cut the root by his own
volition in the pursuit of social credit, all the
more he falls into dejection. I will not lie to
you, there are many among his ranks who will
gnash their teeth and fight you to the death, all
to hide the truth of their slave morality. But is
there not one life you know whom that has been caught in the
this spell, yet still for whom a thread of hope to for our
world remains? Were you not there there, once, rider?
For I was your enemy in my youth. I am ashamed of
how long it took for me to come into the know,
but each of us must travel our own path and the
ugliness of that spell only later only hardened my
resolve. So love him, rider. Love this fool under
a spell, for many of them, here in the 21st
century will hear our call and become enchanted,
for we the romantics have our own spells.

I pray your horse is swift, rider, for we can not
stay here for too much longer, even if our hearts long to
bring those who will not come. You know the
danger that makes way, so why do you linger here
in this graveyard? Do you think me mad? That mad, that my
answer would be is to uproot ourselves completely? To cut
the final thread? To become the
anti-traditionalist.
anti‐traditionalist? To ask ourselves what good
is two thousand years of Semitic Aryans and their
cathedrals? What good are good, fragments of pottery, pottery from long-dead Hellenes, that
long‐dead Hellenes who I can never truly know?
What good is good, an enlightenment that brings about the
Nothing? What good is are the Yamnaya Yamnaya, when I can
only dream of them? I say to hell with
maintaining decay. decay! I look to the future from
within. It is only there, in the inner mode of
being, that we can finally regrow this sacred
vine.

Now I will tie the red red, white and blue on my
wrist, and tear a page from Darwin and keep it in
my pocket. Finally, this here red flag with a black
swastika,
swastika – that symbol as ancient as our kind,
encircled by the white Sun that we follow, follow –
will be my cloak. Let five generations hate me
for this symbol but know that – the sixth will take up its cause.
cause! Let this symbol, flown by the adversary of
my father’s father, mark me as an enemy of
those who hollow out the eyes of our people. Let it It
will serve as a reminder of my promise to the
German. These will be my only possessions. Now
what is it that you will you take from this place, rider? Know
that each item you carry will
only weigh you down. But then I am down, yet
also inclined
to remember that these objects will serve to
warm us in the quiet moments when our eyes lose
sight of the horizon and we must accept rest. Do
not forget that these fragments of our past histories
that lie all around you, here you in this graveyard, are
only physical pieces of our memetic history. So
much more is written into your blood itself,
there in
the realm of instinct. Verily, I wish not to
forget all the footsteps in our journey from
beast to man. However, our task is to find the
new man.

Will

Rider, will you take the coiled black snake in
yellow as your cape? Is that how you will recall
liberty? Or perhaps a fifty pound bust of
Socrates on a chain, you can carry carried around your neck as a means to always
remind you of your infatuation with freedom? Will
you fill your boots with cement so as to not
forget how to create it, as since its formula was
forgotten in the collapse of Rome? And still
better, Or better
still, let us take the whole graveyard with us,
so that when we meet the new man, we can give him
a field of corpses. corpses? No. To have our eyes here on
the grave, fixed on what was, will only obstruct
our gaze and the pursuit of what can be. To be
short, In a
word, I am not a man of the west. West. Western
civilization is but a single road on the greater
journey. I am a child of the horizon. A broken
remnant of the Aryan. An aspect of Being. Or as
Mussolini put it, “a feeling.” feeling”.

Yes, perhaps you are right to label me mad. That mad – to
suggest the answer would should be to cut off the ligament limb
that had become infected. What hysteria to bring
a blade upon oneself in the desperate attempt to
return to homeostasis. What a fatal action when I bring
the it is
to draw dagger across the flesh and to remove the
infection. rot.
But you must cut it out, rider. Look all around
you at these conservatives. Look how they worship
the bust of Socrates. Look how pristine they
attempt to keep these flags. What care they bring
to the maintenance of the quaint old English
home, but but, what of the maintenance of the man?
Look at the deification of this graveyard and its
urns. Look how they worship the
stone stone, and iron iron,
but never the blood! I am not glad that it has
come to this. That such times would befall us
and we would live to see not only our homes
taken, but even our memories. Alas, this place I I,
too, once too called home. Like It is like a museum of our
heritage that now is now ablaze. You can desperately
try to save what you can, but know this, rider. You rider:
you and your blood is are all that must be saved. It
is the blood that is paramount and your most
precious possession.

It is an error made all-too-often all too often in our age.
That age,
that a man’s worth is found in his dedication
to our graves. That the black is white if he
adores our ruins. That That, the African can rebuild
himself into the European if only he can be made
to love our corpses. Even the head of these
right-wing
right‐wing parties who supposedly speak for us,
do so like men crossing the a frozen lake. Each lake ‐ each
step placed with caution and fear. Like sailors
never coming too close to the sirens for fear of
crashing their ships on the rocks. For they must
remain electable, optical. I say, let us crash
the ship. Let us make love to the sirens and sing
their song. Do you not know what they sing, rider? That
That, Europe is blood. That Europe is a state of
being. And it is this song that these
right-wing
right‐wing pundits and politicians are
all-too-afraid afraid
to hear, or to sing.

Do not weep, rider. There, out in the horizon we
will find that things aren’t as aimless as they
seem. Whether we are to be deterministic or if
whether we
shall carry with us free will, I shall still
hold on to destiny. There is a motivated movement
that trembles throughout the entirety of this
universe, this realm, this Being. If one is were to
put his ear to the ground, ground and listen carefully,
he will would hear the trembling of its development.
The development,
the heartbeat that propels this existence, ever
towards its conclusion. You In time you will come to
know that the European continuum is an
indispensable element in this manifestation. But
let us save that for the road ahead, for we are
not yet ready to wield the Sacred Sword, the
weapon that we must carry into battle against the
nihilist, the existentialist, the pessimist, the
absurdist and the undreamer.

Let them know that we under this banner have
romantic hearts. That we shall meet this
suffering, the suffering that has captivated the
Buddhist, with zeal. With smiles on our faces.
For a world without dragons is a world without
heroes. That Let them know that we declare ourselves as
the protagonists of history. That we ask for
suffering so that we may endure it. That we ask
for the impossible-to-surmount insurmountable mountain, so that we may
prove over and over again that nothing is
impossible. That whether we see the Sun or we do
not see the Sun, we will ever move in its
direction with our eyes transfixed, always on the
horizon.