Welcome to the Fore-Yule-Moon issue, with guest editor Dawid Rudzinski. Dawid is an artist and some more of his work can be seen here.
A Call To Arms
We live in a time when the stench of Zeitgeist is the incense on altars of abandoned Spirit. The breaking of bonds with nature shattered the shreds of the human spirit, irretrievably preventing many from rising to what is divine in Man. Fenrir’s abstract bindings are broken, his hunger freed, consumerism devours the Sun, our highest aspiration for growth.
The schools that were created for growth of the soul have been overtaken by Thurses. Religions become empty words attracting us with their exoticism; they are at most an ornament, a decoration or a superficial lifestyle. Alternative paths of development seem to be for the most part a big pseudo-magic tinsel shop. The task of the modern priest is to tune man to the best consumer performance. Such a coach will explain to you that you are a winner; then you will give your blood and lose your life, becoming the fuel for this machine of decline of the Spirit. You will do it with a smile on your face, drunk, intoxicated by dancing at the funeral of a human/god hybrid. The emptiness yawns and terrifies; depression this year is the second-most dominant disease of our time. In 2020 it will triumph, winning gold in this macabre race. Depression is a disease of the soul, it is aggression directed against itself. Fenrir is doing well!
In all this chaos, sprinkled with powdered corpses staring at the technological idols erected on the pillars of science and atheism, the North Star, the unshakeable axis of the wheel of the world, tirelessly points the way for daredevils ready to fight the giants, to the Holy War, to a personal War for their own Spirit.
No time has called you more to find your axis mundi. To find the eternal immovable nail supporting the vault. Indeed, this path is endless, without even a visible goal. Nobody promises a golden mountain, holy peace, mindfulness or nirvana. The joy and reward is in a search of itself, a creative act which fruit becomes you alone, different, unexpected, unplanned, other. On the way to the unknown, you gradually throw off unnecessary decorations, you put on various masks to adapt to the new conditions and environment. At some point you capture at least for a moment a flash of what is invariably behind each mask …
: Reyn til Runa :!