I’ve not got anything good to say

Of late my thoughts have been focused too much on current events and politics. I do not want to write about those things because I think even thinking too much about them can be corrupting to the soul. It would be worth the thought and the corruption if I had any say in the way events unfold, but I don’t and it’s probably for the best because I am not qualified to pontificate and even less to act. But this is why I’ve not written much, the things I’ve been thinking are not good to write.

I am a bad person when it comes to politics, I become far too engrossed by the competing factions and the games they play to take each other down. I find the whole drama fascinating and I get a great deal of intellectual satisfaction from trying to figure out what is going on underneath the surface theatre, from considering who is sincere, who is not, who is outright lying – and in all cases why and how it relates to everyone else. I know the futility of my caring, yet I continue to care. I know that I am not smart enough or knowledgable enough to really judge a lot of things, but if anything that just makes the challenge more interesting. For me it’s a fun intellectual exercise, while for other people it is their lives or their livelihoods. For me the drama is thrilling but for people that are directly effected by it, it must be terrifying. When I was a child I was always so excited by talk of war on television, I sat at the edge of my seat, hoping for escalation, looking forward to the exciting new stories that would come tomorrow. Thrilled and mesmerised while people died, while people were tortured, while homes and businesses and whole economies were destroyed.

I still feel that way. Even though I know it is a terrible way to think and feel. People might say it is because I am spoiled, because I have never really suffered, because I don’t know what war and death and suffering really mean – and they are probably right. Sometimes I wish I could find out, because I don’t want to be evil. I don’t want to feel bloodlust or take pleasure in other peoples suffering – nothing makes me so ashamed about myself as this. It is wrong.

Maybe one day I will find out and regret, maybe I will have to really suffer to find repentance.

But maybe I will never repent – in my heart as opposed to my head – that is what terrifies me. What if I never conquer this part of myself?


Kali Yuga

It seems to you that all the low hanging fruit has been picked. All that is left is beyond the reach of one such as you.

“You shall know them by their fruits” he said, but how much easier it was to pick fruit in the beginning, how much more glory there was to be won, how much less work to win it.

Is this true? Or did it always seem so?

In the kali yuga we are worse, and the opportunities for glory are less. This is not because of some mere random spiritual degeneration as some suppose. It is because of democratisation, the death of elitism. Without gatekeepers, the rabble dominate, their weaknesses all the more apparent because competition demands they drag one another down.

The nobility hid their flaws, their prestige was a vital tool, the demos need no prestige for they have numbers – so prestige is scorned and the lowest common denominator wins out.

You kid yourself truly if you think you belong among the elite. Your affectations of aristocracy are as shameful as they are ridiculous. You lack of course the blood but be honest with yourself, do you not also lack the quality?

You are better off in this age than any other, among the throng of mob, seething and writhing like insects, incessant chatter and noise. This is your time and place, until Kalki returns.

You watch for that white horse, your cunning plan, to charge upon his sword and be reborn with the purest of souls.


All empires fall. So far this has always proven to be true. All men die. This has too.

What of Christ? What of the Blood of the Lamb? Of the Resurrection? – hope unanswerable, ridiculous absurdities.

Lev Shestov tells us to believe because it is absurd, of course he was not the first to say so. You wonder how Tertullian would have felt about the decline of Rome. If only Louis Theroux could go back in time and interview those early cultists, humanise them for us, let us understand the mindset that birthed 1800 years of faith.

With the entropy death of the universe weighing down on us, will we have the passion to live as our forefathers? To pursue virtue, truth and justice? Can the end serve us as once the dream of a new beginning did?

“Where now for man?” sighs ennui.

But as you know, there is no such thing as “man” – men will go on, better men than you, they will overwhelm you with their vitality, swallow you whole.

They will pursue virtue, truth, justice – as you pursue warm meals and a bed.

You will survive, but they will give birth to worlds.

Hope’s charity

Feeling sick to your stomach, you run what you wanted to say, what you should have said, through your head. If only you had explained this or that? If only you had another chance to put forward your case, to put everything into it’s fullest context.

Sadness passes over you, then inside a small voice of hope is faced by an army of anger and doubt, “we will defend this kingdom against your falsehoods” cries doubt, “you would speak kindness about those who will destroy us?!” cries anger. The small voice looks up helplessly, ever trusting at you, begging you to grant her freedom, to give her the opportunity to sow joy, even if only briefly.

What good is hope, only to be crushed? Better to be vanquished here inside, than vanquished by foreign forces. Better that we smother the child than let her be captured and raped.

Tears reach out in desperation, trying to avoid the inevitable descent from their ocular peaks. “Don’t let us fall” they cry, but it is too late.

The castle is surrounded and the siege is on. The garrison surrounds the child awaiting your instruction, to slaughter so beautiful a being to save her innocence, or to allow her hostage taking by alien powers.

Your heart ever wavering, you wish you could be firm, you hate that child so much in this moment, because you love her with your whole soul. There is no way you could order her death, your mouth tries to utter the command, but your heart rebels and steals your voice.

The enemy storms the gate, the castle falls, the child is taken, you are imprisoned in your own dungeon, pensively awaiting your fate. As they drag her off, she even now tries to give comfort. “I will petition my new liege for mercy, he may still grant you that which you desire, our love will never die, adieu!”

Rot in the dungeon of your own making, but do not blame the child.

Christmas is coming

Advent has begun and Christmas looms on the horizon. Other people gripe and moan about having to visit their families, about materialism, about religion.

You have no such opportunity to be cool and angry. You love Christmas. You love getting to see your family, even though your bed there has fleas and as they grow older every visit is a reminder of the frailty of the human condition and the inevitability of death. You love the materialism, the excuse to get things for people, to buy things for no practical reason at all, even though you can’t afford much you look forward to the reactions in peoples faces to the things you bring. You love the religion, the carols, the candles, midnight mass, the ridiculously cutsey nativity displays, the traditions, the foreshadowing of Easter and the Cross.

Even though you don’t believe.


You spend a lot of time playing with different narratives. You always mused that this freedom in narrative was something of a skill in itself, the ability to look past narrative as fact and consider it as purposeful.

Now though you wonder if you did not go too far. Truth is completely elusive. Sometimes for a moment you think you might have a clue, that there are shades of validity – some narratives right, some narratives wrong. But you find it all to easy, in a moment, in a conversation, while reading a book – to step outside the subjectivity of narrative and consider another. No longer is there anything that you can grasp, nothing solid, nothing that doesn’t melt and transform into something else when you tilt your head or rub your eyes.

Narrative is very socially useful, it binds us together, binds societies, families, cultures.

You can play that game, enjoy it, be a part of something. Rail against the other, join in with the narratives of the group. But all it takes is a second alone… a tilt of the head, a blinking of the eyes. The crowd fades into the background, the noise, the camaraderie, the belonging.

You are alone again, looking down on them all, observing and analysing, their truths are not your truths.