It brings to life a yearning inside of me that is like the flame of history. One full of mysteries that are nearly impossible for me to comprehend, not because they are mysteries, not because they are of a place so foreign to me, but because it is a time of knowledge that is simply not available to me. Our fact based world is like an organized arrangement of evenly cut wood. Mystics? Mystery? We know nothing.

We speak often of Gods, Gurus, Chieftains and even Legends. But do we really know anything about them? They become so entwined in embellishments and attributed to every faith based supernatural event, that it is impossible to know them as we interpret their word.

Knowing is something we learn about in books. This is understanding. Expanded, it is also something we know about from experience. But the knowing that comes from deeply inside, the guiding vision to life that isn’t based on fact based decision making, metrics; this feeling based decision making is far from us, therefore the true knowing of any aspect of mysticism is foreign and unknown because this is the type of knowing that mysticism stems from. A world most of us cannot comprehend.

The fire is this feeling. The fire is the dark archways with a grandiose door, heavy knocker, and words that echo off the walls. The fire is in the full moon. The fire is a growing feeling of responsibility that has been lost in favour of this clockwork that has captured the hearts in a grip of ice racing to build a better tomorrow. Not knowing is the wisdom deep inside un-honoured.

When is it time to stand up? The fire knows.

What will it be that finally provokes it? The fire knows.

Apathy becomes the loss of life’s purpose. Atheism is the loss of life’s fire, the complete loss of faith in an inner vision, a guidance beyond comprehension. Perhaps conveniently it’s become a catchy phrase for those no longer believing in the current cultural Gods, but none–the-less, it is some of the saddest words for it speaks that the speaker has never spent a moment contemplating what this inner fire sensation of spirituality really is. Perhaps it could also be some of the most exposing words, for it is a step towards dismantling the damp and heavy cloak or our failing religiously cultured society that smothers each inner fire, so begging to be stoked.

Masculine is the strength to bring in the fire. Feminine is the nurture as the fire is stoked. What is the apathy that sits idly by as the fire dwindles down?

Sitting after a Winter dinner, log on the fire, wood chips at thy feet mingled with the day’s toils, un-distracted thought. A weapon. A subtle mind that is awaited. Though ten thousand wild boars squeal with glee in an attempt to distract thy subtle mind from the pure mysticism of the night. The darkness retreating between exposed stars, evermore.

It is hard to imagine the silence that this details. No distraction in a libatious drink. No soothing audible tones reflecting off the walls. Just rich fibers of a large sheep’s wool garment stretched across the armchair one doth sit at. A simple abode. A lions abode. One so subtle in appearance, but extremely effective and focused. Chiaroscuro from the edges of thy soul so creeping in with a torch above its head, walking down that trod but snow covered path. Behind that heavy door amidst the tremendous archway, so heavily built.

What does the food look like? What does the garment look like? What doth cover thy feet? What scarcity exists that claws at your mind in alarming attention? What is it that speaks hunger? Yet all at once, how far can each of those existences wander off, alone and scared on their own, without the onslaught on thine mind.

So we think we are in a masculine world, yet I argue feminine is the distracted mind. The feminine is the eclectic organization about the mantle, all trinkets of beauty and noteworthy, talisman of thine life, patterned and yet so far from the simplicity an ancient oak fire asks. Yet without these eccentricities the fire would not eat; it is not the food needed. Feminine is distractions of the soul leaking into the very inner parts of the belly. The lizard brain racing to the worry that we will not survive. The preparing for what we do not know, in worry, in fear.

Yet, another feminine trait: celebration has it’s place too. It is the gathering, the collecting of the pieces to be arranged into a feast unlike no other, a sharing of this flame. Each flame, so fired, is unlike no other. No two sparks the same. No celebration of thoughts, so arranged on the table for feast, can be the same. Impossible. For when it feasts on the fire, it is the very breath of the stars.

And that is where the mystics live. Enjoying the fire for it is not there. Enjoying the feast for it is not there. The mind, so warmed by the sheepskin and moonlit shadows gathering through the valley of thought. And death doth lurk near like the loss each experienced from Autumn into Winter. Though it be not through fear that it hangs close, for there is no room here for fear. It is through the un-bearing flow we cannot escape as mortal mystics listening that our death and resultant birth forgets not. Rebirth is the fire waiting to speak once again. It is the ancient belly of the bearing beast. It is the Godsend.

Your Gods, they can scowl. My Gods they roar. My fire be there, it is burning.

Be cautioned your fire, it burneth by fuel you set inside it.


“I don’t want to.” Said the child, so the child did not. The child grew up, and the child was a man, and the man said: “I’m not interested.” So the man was not interested, and the man grew up and became an elder and told his grandson: “I cannot.”

“I want to.” Said the child, so the child explored. The child grew up, and the child became a woman, and the woman said: “I am listening.” So the woman heard, and the woman grew up and became an elder and told her grandaughter: “I have.”

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