Who is really the hero? There have been many figures among humans that represent the heroic and creative aspect of man, but I believe these are all but caricatures of something more beautiful and complex than can be possible conceived. Buddha, Christ, Moses, all are considered to be heroes of their own right; even normal men who's words forked lightning in their time, have been deified and worshipped. But these are but caricatures, and inaccurate ones at that. (To be completely clear: I am no psychologist nor philosopher nor man of education nor have any societally deemed authority behind my words; I am but a fool, in love with the world, and this is my take on the world I have created. These ideas are not my own, only the advancing and fusion of them is.) The hero is not one that can be described. Human kind has called him many things; Overman, Buddha, Christ, Saint, Moses, too little did we see, that who we were describing in our stories was truly ourselves, and the mysterious, and not yet articulated form of what we could be. I have delved into the theory of the hero, the enlightened one, and found him out. He is but a fool, and but a man, but therein lies his magic. Nameless, wordless, formless and graceful does he, in the words of Nietzsche's Zarathustra: "Climb over human beings, and overcomes himself and all the highest peaks-the creator and destroyer of his own will." To place an image, a word, a name on that which transforms and creates the soul and human mind is stupidity of the highest degree. Though I claim the stupidity of names, I do not disgrace the ancestors who came up with these names, for they had no better way of portraying IT than in the shape and form of a story. A name however can never describe its namesake; not fully. A word will never be whatever it is pointing to, it will be only that illusion by which we determine and categorize that which it is pointing to. Man has pointed directly at everything so far in the world and called it different names, but is as yet to point the thumb at himself and find his true name. For what greater mystery is there, but to discover that which watches oneself? The origin of consciousness, the still point of the turning world. The know that knows that we know that we know. So many lies and self deceit have been wrought by the most wretched and filthy of human kind that we find ourselves lost in that which we already are! How stupid we have become in our dusty and rigid wisdom! How compliant and decadent have we become in our tyranny! How cowardly! Where now is the hero, the creator through whom we might be saved we ask, but none have the will to become him! How stupid indeed. For all our endearing foolishness and quirks this I love the least: he who has not the will to make himself his own saviour! How could one hope to find IT and the love of his fool amidst such ridiculous and petty chatter! And yet! There are those who preach wisdom in their melancholy and say all is for nought, can you not hear yourself in the rain, the trees shout to you, and you alone-You are your own saviour!
Pigs and demons we have become in our blessed rationality, praising all that is logic and thought, never stopping for a moment to consider that which makes us human the most-the soul! Surrounded by wretches and thieves of the soul are we. Continue to sit quietly, those who preach melancholy, so that you may pass, and none too soon!- For if you should fall off a cliff, I would give you a push! Wretches and thieves of the soul we have all become. Look upon our devices of marvelous use and magic, so wonderful a technology has NEVER been in our past, and yet what do we do with our knowledge? We cling to the past ways of acting and thinking, like thieves clutching an empty purse to his chest, for hope there might appear gold in it! Where now is the true revolution, that which might change our wretched humanity? Think me a nihilist and fool all you wish, but know this; out of love for man do I proclaim these harsh words! I would wish nothing more for us all than to overcome and become our own creators, I would wish nothing more than to have us all bleed the same blood, and be of skin the same colour, truly, I wish nothing more! But more I wish that the melancholic ways of our childish systems be petrified and made stone by our might! Not revolution to bring down order and state no, you fools! Revolution of the self! The mind and soul and body! How could one hope to create the world well, when he is but a wretch a pig and a thief? Listen! Listen to it call to you- That which tells you that you are wretched, for in every mind of man there lies the greatest gift of all- A conscience! Not a tyrant of a conscience, given to you by parents and stupid school teachers who are wretches themselves, no!- Instead your own will should be your conscience! Point to the moon, and confuse not the moon with your finger, and see you have created the world and it has created you. Tell not the lies to yourself that to be alone is weakness, that to be in solitude and contemplation is strange and stupid, these lies are told to you by those who are stupid themselves! Take not to the streets for change of the world when your own life about you crumbles, and your soul is empty like a coffin! Nothing but spiders and gluttons of thought I name you, all revolutionaries of the world, for you have looked at yourself and found yourself unlookable! So now you look to the world, a source of great evil to be sure, but not to KNOW and UNDERSTAND the evil do you seek, no, instead you despise your enemy and seek to annihilate him! Honorable are those who can call themselves your enemies, for without them to contrast against, you would not know you were good! Do not love your enemies and pity them, but seek not enemies that are not worth the fight! Not worth the fight are your enemies; you who revolutionize the world-and would call yourselves good for your destruction! Fools! Fools in majesty and human stupidity I see in you, but more do I see, wretched resentment and too logical thought! Indeed your souls are so empty spiders have made nests there! Burn your souls to the ground you wretches, so that from the ashes of your nonexistence can rise one worthy of man's ability to create! Let alone the affairs of state to those worthy. But how stupidly we select those who are worthy! The blame is with none but ourselves, wretches and thieves! My soul you will steal not with your menageries of pleasure and foods of great sweetness, I care not for your trap of pity and decadence! I despise it deeply, and with all my human-hearted will! Though blame you I do not, for I know of the suffering of life and the relief the holding of an empty soul can bring. No creations, no responsibilities, only revenge and rancor do you seek you gluttons of thoughts! False heroes and justice seekers I name you, and those who seek revenge in the guise of justice instead of redemption! I see through the white robes of the saintly cloths you wear, I see through your loving gaze, I see through the wordless lies you weave, I see you for the spiders you are! Kindness and pity, what shit! True kindness is rare, for under the guise of white robes you seek to be seen by all as kind, where is he that would be kind with none to witness! Be kind instead to yourself and begone, for the world is full up of those who do not love themselves, and needs more. Love not your neighbor, love your enemy should he be worthy of your violence! Love not a lover you can conquer, for they are but a weasel, love instead that who you can contend with! Thieves and wretches of the soul I name us all, us all of this "modern" world and thought. We are gods but for the wisdom, and now seek enlightenment through the world, but not through the soul. Where is he or she who can save us now. In YOU! In you there lies the capacity to create the world, and once you have created yourself, and become it, return once more, and I will impart to you more wisdom! Begone, and live!