THE RETURN OF THE ARYAN 12

“Wake up”.

"WAKE UP.” My eyes open to reveal Nihilism,
wearing the mask of the little girl from the
graveyard. She smiles sweetly at me as she begins
once more,
“You were sleeping again. Look, your friend has
sunk even further, yet you still
remain exactly where you were. I must
say I am completely perplexed. Do you know
how long you’ve been at this, trying to break
free from the muck? Three days now. For three
days you have
struggled like a wild beast. Surely yo
u’ve dislocated your shoulder, from how many
times you’ve reached for that sacred weapon, in
vain. What could compel a man to yearn for
something so relentlessly, that he knows he’ll
never grasp?” “YOU WERE SLEEPING AGAIN. LOOK, YOUR
FRIEND HAS SUNK EVEN FURTHER, YET YOU STILL
REMAIN EXACTLY WHERE YOU WERE. I MUST SAY I AM
COMPLETELY PERPLEXED. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG
YOU’VE BEEN AT THIS, TRYING TO BREAK FREE FROM
THE MUCK? THREE DAYS, NOW. FOR THREE DAYS YOU
HAVE STRUGGLED LIKE A WILD BEAST. SURELY YOU’VE
DISLOCATED YOUR SHOULDER, FROM HOW MANY TIMES
YOU’VE REACHED FOR THAT SACRED WEAPON ‐ IN
VAIN! WHAT COULD COMPEL A MAN TO YEARN FOR
SOMETHING SO RELENTLESSLY, THAT HE KNOWS HE’LL
NEVER GRASP?” I turn towards you, rider, and
see that you are now halfway submerged. I look
back to the sacred weapon and once again push
myself forward. However, forward. However, I am still caught in the
swamp’s embrace, as it ever reconstructs me
into its own form. My blue-black veins blue‐black veins, and
eyes shrouded in deep purple, purple make it clear that I
have begun to wither. I am slowly becoming the
decay.

Nihilism begins again, “Did you know that the
parents of “DID YOU KNOW THAT THE
PARENTS OF THIS LITTLE GIRL, UPON FINDING OUT SHE
WAS SLAIN BY A MOHAMMEDAN GHOUL, DID NOT RALLY TO
YOUR CAUSE? IN FACT, THEY WERE RESOLUTELY AGAINST
YOU, EVEN AFTER THE DEATH OF THEIR PRECIOUS
CHILD. THEY WOULD SOONER SPIT ON YOU, WHO WEARS A
CRIMSON CLOAK OF A DEAD IDEOLOGY, THAN THEY WOULD
THE MURDERER OF THEIR OFFSPRING. FOR YOU ARE
HATED EVERYWHERE YOU GO, BY ALL VARIATIONS OF
YOUR KIND. REST NOW. YOU HAVE VENTURED SO FAR
FOR NOTHING, REALLY. WHY WASTE YOUR CONSCIOUS
HOURS FIGHTING FOR A PEOPLE THAT WISH TO
EXTINGUISH THEMSELVES?” Hearing this little girl, upon finding out she
was slain by a Mohammedan ghoul, did not rally to
your cause? In fact, they were resolutely against
you, even after the death of their precious
child. They would sooner spit on you, who wears a
crimson cloak of a dead ideology, than they would
the murderer of their offspring. For you are
hated everywhere you go, by all variations of
your kind. Rest now. You have ventured so far for
nothing, really. Why waste your conscious hours
fighting for a people that wish to extinguish
themselves?” Suddenly I begin to
sink. I close my eyes, lowering my head and arm.
She is right. Nihilism whispers in my ear, “Of course “OF
COURSE I am
right.” AM RIGHT.” My eyes reopen, I gnash my
teeth and once again frantically lunge forward.
She sighs, leaning
back as she states, “It’s a pity, really. I
don’t have many people come this far into my
domain, and fewer still stay afloat long enough
to carry on a good conversation. You’ve managed
to remain above the surface longer than any other
man I’ve known, and yet, you won’t even give
me more than a few words. Truly, it can be quite
lonely, here in the abyss. But back. “IT’S A PITY,
REALLY. I suppose silence
is most befitting us; we, the shadows who dwell
in the Swamp of Sadness. Perhaps dialog is over
rated. Indeed, mankind’s entire history, is but
a murmuring in the void. Whispers in a sea of
nothing.” DON’T HAVE MANY PEOPLE COME THIS FAR
INTO MY DOMAIN, AND FEWER STILL STAY AFLOAT LONG
ENOUGH TO CARRY ON A GOOD CONVERSATION. YOU’VE
MANAGED TO REMAIN ABOVE THE SURFACE LONGER THAN
ANY OTHER MAN I’VE KNOWN, AND YET, YOU WON’T
GIVE ME MORE THAN A FEW WORDS. TRULY, IT CAN BE
QUITE LONELY, HERE IN THE ABYSS. BUT I SUPPOSE
SILENCE IS MOST BEFITTING US; WE, THE SHADOWS WHO
DWELL IN THE SWAMP OF SADNESS. PERHAPS DIALOGUE
IS OVERRATED. INDEED, MANKIND’S ENTIRE HISTORY
IS BUT A MURMURING IN THE VOID. WHISPERS, INTO A
SEA OF NOTHING.”

My hand still reaches out for the sacred blade,
but I am too far. To think, we have come all this
way, only to drown in apathy before the altar of
purpose. Please forgive me, rider. I begin to
sink further into the muck. My hand remains
outstretched, when suddenly, Suddenly, I see a
moth gently flutter before and between my
outstretched fingers. What are you doing out
here, little moth? Have you traveled with us all
this way? Then please you, please, forgive me too, for I
have led you to a marsh that only knows sorrow.
Why would such a pretty thing like as yourself, wish
to wind up here in this most dreaded of places,
so far from your task, the chase of the flame?

“The flame.” I mutter out. mutter. My eyes refocus behind
the dancing moth, past my free hand and the
Sacred Sword, between the trees trees, and there, out
on the horizon, I behold the glorious red Sun.
Somehow its rays of light have found their way
into this realm of shadows. Tears stream from my
withered eyes as I whisper, “Thank you.” I
lower my head and weep. Suddenly I hear a melody,
crying out from the distance. The voice of a
woman. Perhaps there are angels after all, and it
is time for my spirit to depart this world,
guided to heaven or hell, hell by the will of
Christ’s emissary. No No, it can’t be, for this
place was built over the grave of God and his
angels. How could such beings tread near this
place,
place without ceasing to be entirely? I must be
imagining things yet, things. Yet, there it is again. That
melody, only now there are many more women
singing along. Slowly, as the voices draw near, I
begin to make out the words, “To be, to be, to
be!” I whisper out, “To be?”

Nihilism looks to me and asks, “What did you
say?” “WHAT DID YOU
SAY?” My eyes remain completely fixated fixed on the
immortal star, as its light slips through my
fingers. Suddenly I hear a chorus of men cry out,
“Europe endless!”, followed by the women once
again, “To be, to be, to be!” Nihilism
approaches me and with a confused expression
says, “Why do you look that way? As if you were
beguiled by some great sight.” “WHY DO YOU LOOK THAT WAY? AS IF YOU WERE
BEGUILED BY SOME GREAT SIGHT.” She looks out at
the Sun. “Is it that orb, in the sky? “IS IT THAT ORB, IN THE SKY? A near
perfect sphere of hot plasma, powered by nuclear
fusion reactions in its core? That’s the thing
that gives you purpose?” NEAR
PERFECT SPHERE OF HOT PLASMA, POWERED BY NUCLEAR
FUSION REACTIONS IN ITS CORE? THAT’S THE THING
THAT GIVES YOU PURPOSE?” She begins to laugh.
The chorus that had swayed shifted back and forth from
men to women finally converges as they cry out
together, “Endlessness! Endlessness!
Endlessness!”

Suddenly, I don’t know why, but I begin
to sing along with them. Though this sacred clown
may lack a songbirds songbird’s voice, still, I too I, too, shall sing
with them.
sing. For I see now, this is merely the song of
the European continuum. Those old words and notes
that had struggled in dissonance and immaturity
for so long, are now finally together together, forming a
grand harmony. What is this language that they
speak? It is not of my own tongue, yet I know its
meaning. Is this Russian or German? Is it Greek
or Latin? Is it Proto-Indo-European? Proto‐Indo‐European? No, it
is the a future language. Some distant tongue not yet
born, which the European continuum will
adapt, adopt, in
order to achieve survival. survive. A new meme, forged from the
desire to unify a concept and a people. One
people, with one ideology. To be. My whispers
slowly become a shout as my arm remains stretched
outward, formed into a Roman salute, heiling the
red Sun. I cry once more, “Endlessness!
Endlessness! Endlessness!” Suddenly I begin to
feel my legs moving, as if the swamp had lost its
grip and I was once again free to move towards pursue my
endeavor. Upon seeing my body begin to budge,
Nihilism calls out, “What
are you singing? Don’t you know notes are just
vibrations in the air that bring about serotonin?
Is this your requiem? Don’t you know you’re
just romanticizing your end? You’re just
bacteria. There’s no purpose to being!
There’s no purpose to Being!” “WHAT ARE YOU SINGING?
DON’T YOU KNOW NOTES ARE JUST VIBRATIONS IN THE
AIR THAT BRING ABOUT SEROTONIN? IS THIS YOUR
REQUIEM? DON’T YOU KNOW YOU’RE JUST
ROMANTICIZING YOUR END? YOU’RE JUST BACTERIA!
THERE’S NO PURPOSE TO BEING! THERE’S NO
PURPOSE TO BEING!”

Then, all of a sudden, the swamp is saturated in
a blinding light. Like Light like a flock of doves,
whose wings shimmer as the stars above, flying
outward in all directions. A flood of endless
light, radiating from the Sacred Sword, raised
high above my head, at long last last, free from the
old tree’s stump. For buried in the light of
that sacred weapon was the yearning. That yearning, that deep
impulse, from the heart of Being, that sought the
knowing. The same way that candle light candlelight gives
clarity to the a dark room, so too did the light of
the Sacred Sword gave give understanding of as to this
paramount task. It revealed to the Aryan, Aryan the
Phenomenon of Man. In the its light, the real face of
Nihilism is revealed. A putrid deformed hag. As
the light beams across her skin, she begins to
burn. She cries out, “Who are you?” “WHO ARE YOU?” I shout
out to her in this accursed swamp, “I am the
last son of the West, and I have come to free the
European continuum from your spell!” In an
instant I bring the sword down on her. However, down, but before the
blade can even reach her skin, skin she disintegrates
like
into smoke and ash, and is lost to the in a harsh wind.
The weapon continues to beam wildly as I wrap it
up in a makeshift leather scabbard. My eyes,
still slightly blinded by the light of the Sacred
Sword, slowly regain focus. To my surprise the
swamp had has been fundamentally changed. For where
there Where once was
there were thorns, there now lies only
flowers. As flowers,
as if the whole swamp had dried up and
become disappeared, replaced
by a cornucopia of sounds and colors.
Suddenly I see a
squirrel as it darts past my
foot. foot, and the air is
full of the buzzing of bees and the chirping of
birdsong. I look back to you rider you, rider, and see that
you still live, albeit buried half way half‐buried in the dirt.
Come
Come, my old friend, for the chase of the Sun
awaits us.

I pull you up, out of the dry dirt, and we make
our way back from whence we came. Suddenly I hear
the sound of mumbling. To my delight, we are once
more met with my old friend the Atheist. He
struggles as he is buried in a bloom bed of flowers,
his mouth filled with various plants and moss stuck in his mouth.
Finally clumps
of moss. After he spits out the last bits of dirt and
he speaks, “So I was wrong? There truly is an
afterlife? Is this heaven or hell?” I smile as
I reply to him, “It is neither heaven nor hell.
I know it by no other name than Being. Come, let
us aid this Being, in its endeavor to know
itself.” I reach out my hand, in order to help
him, as he returns to his feet. The Atheist looks
left and right then whispers “What happened to
this place? Where did the swamp go, and what of
that dreadful hag Nihilism? Will she soon come
back our way?” I embrace him as I let out, with a smile.
“No. For today marks both the death of Nihilism nihilism
and the return of the Aryan.”