Man must strive upwards, but he can reach nowhere if there’s no god treading down to meet him. The higher can not come from the lower, and everything high in this world is a reunion with him who is Highest. Tradition is the presence of actual gods, walking the earth.

Knowledge of the divine is not a matter of theory, culture or ideals – it’s a matter of experience. Of seeing it with one’s own eyes, of joining a god on his path. And from this concrete experience bloom all great deeds and creations of man, his blood reborn in spring.

Christianity did not draw its strength from some new theory or morality, but from the experience of god made man. God walked among us, and died for us – that’s the single message of the evangelium, the burning truth that made men forget all old gods, and join upon His path.

Had the old gods still been present in flesh, there would have been no Christianity. And there will be no return of Aryan faith, until new gods once again tread the earth, as our forefathers told they once did. And until then, our struggle can only be a call of longing.

The cycle can not be turned back, nor can it be accelerated – a golden age can only rise when the gods chose to return. Knowledge of the old Aryan tradition is really secondary – for it’s not up to us to reignite it. To revive tradition is the same as to claim godhood.

Any insightful attempt to revive tradition must come to the same conclusion – that we must wait. That we can only attempt to live as noble men, return to a simple life in harmony with nature, and create as good a future as possible for our children. But how that itches!

Maybe it’s a sign of weakness, of inability to create a good life in wait – but I do long for action. But if I know that this can not reignite Tradition? The answer must be to become firewood. To fall like a cracked branch, a flower in the wind – to die a beautiful death.

Which sight will be of greatest joy to the gods, the day they return? Pockets of noble families, having created their own life in the woods far from the modern world. Or rows of fallen men, who threw themselves at the heart of modernity, knowing that they could only lose.

I have always had a sensibility for the beauty of Death. For throwing everything away, for falling with great passion. But what makes me hesitate is appearing childish the day the gods return – that they should sigh at my blood, spilled in impatience to never return.