War that is always within

and never without.

Once Zarathustra too cast his deluded fancy beyond mankind, like all afterworldsmen. Then the world seemed to me the work of a suffering and tormented God.

Then the world seemed to me the dream and fiction of a God; coloured vapour before the eyes of a discontented God.

Good and evil and joy and sorrow and I and You – I thought them coloured vapour before the creator’s eyes. The creator wanted to look away from himself, so he created the world.

It is intoxicating joy for the sufferer to look away from his suffering and to forget himself. Intoxicating joy and self-forgetting – that is what I once thought the world.

This world, the eternally imperfect, the eternal and imperfect image of a contradiction – an intoxicating joy to its imperfect creator – that is what I once thought the world.

Thus I too once cast my deluded fancy beyond mankind, like all afterworldsmen. Beyond mankind in reality?

Ah, brothers, this God which I created was human work and human madness, like all gods!

He was human, and only a poor piece of man and Ego: this phantom came to me from my own fire and ashes, that is the truth! It did not come to me from the ‘beyond’!

What happened, my brothers? I, the sufferer, overcame myself, I carried my own ashes to the mountains, I made for myself a brighter flame. And behold! the phantom fled from me!

Now to me, the convalescent, it would be suffering and torment to believe in such phantoms: it would be suffering to me now and humiliation. Thus I speak to the afterworldsmen.

It was suffering and impotence – that created all afterworlds; and that brief madness of happiness that only the greatest sufferer experiences.

Weariness, which wants to reach the ultimate with a single leap, with a death-leap, a poor ignorant weariness, which no longer wants even to want: that created all gods and afterworlds.

Believe me, my brothers! It was the body that despaired of the body – that touched the ultimate walls with the fingers of its deluded spirit.

Believe me, my brothers! It was the body that despaired of the earth – that heard the belly of being speak to it.

And then it wanted to get its head through the ultimate walls – and not its head only – over into the ‘other world’.

But that ‘other world’, that inhuman, dehumanized world which is a heavenly Nothing, is well hidden from men; and the belly of being does not speak to man, except as man.

Truly, all being is hard to demonstrate; it is hard to make it speak. Yet, tell me, brothers, is not the most wonderful of all things most clearly demonstrated?

Yes, this Ego, with its contradiction and confusion, speaks most honestly of its being – this creating, willing, evaluating Ego, which is the measure and value of things.

And this most honest being, the Ego – it speaks of the body, and it insists upon the body, even when it fables and fabricates and flutters with broken wings.

Ever more honestly it learns to speak, the Ego: and the more it learns, the more it finds titles and honours for the body and the earth.

My Ego taught me a new pride, I teach it to men: No longer to bury the head in the sand of heavenly things, but to carry it freely, an earthly head which creates meaning for the earth!

I teach mankind a new will: to desire this path that men have followed blindly, and to call it good and no more to creep aside from it, like the sick and dying!

It was the sick and dying who despised the body and the earth and invented the things of heaven and the redeeming drops of blood: but even these sweet and dismal poisons they took from the body and the earth!

They wanted to escape from their misery and the stars were too far for them. Then they sighed: ‘Oh if only there were heavenly paths by which to creep into another existence and into happiness!’ – then they contrived for themselves their secret ways and their draughts of blood!

Now they thought themselves transported from their bodies and from this earth, these ingrates. Yet to what do they owe the convulsion and joy of their transport? To their bodies and to this earth.

Zarathustra is gentle with the sick. Truly, he is not angry at their manner of consolation and ingratitude. May they become convalescents and overcomers and make for themselves a higher body!

Neither is Zarathustra angry with the convalescent if he glances tenderly at his illusions and creeps at midnight around the grave of his God: but even his tears still speak to me of sickness and a sick body.

There have always been many sickly people among those who invent fables and long for God: they have a raging hate for the enlightened man and for that youngest of virtues which is called honesty.

They are always looking back to dark ages: then, indeed, illusion and faith were a different question; raving of the reason was likeness to God, and doubt was sin.

I know these Godlike people all too well: they want to be believed in, and doubt to be sin. I also know all too well what it is they themselves most firmly believe in.

Truly not in afterworlds and redeeming drops of blood: they believe most firmly in the body, and their own body is for them their thing-in-itself.

But it is a sickly thing to them: and they would dearly like to get out of their skins. That is why they hearken to preachers of death and themselves preach afterworlds.

Listen rather, my brothers, to the voice of the healthy body: this is a purer voice and a more honest one.

Purer and more honest of speech is the healthy body, perfect and square-built: and it speaks of the meaning of the earth.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Playing the Pan pipes.

Listen to it.

I’ve been shaken. Truly.

I desire to share the truth of myself and therefore of you too.

This message is primarily for the kind.

Wanderer and Sophia Faustiana.

They are those with whom I’ve shared the pleasure of likeliness of taste. Those who have inherited Nietzsche’s philosophy of the future. He has one important message for those people who he considers great spirits.

If we assume that honesty is a virtue of ours from which we cannot escape, we free spirits - well, we'll want to work on it with all our malice and love and not grow tired of "making ourselves perfect" in our virtue, the only one which remains ours: may its brilliance one day remain lying like a gilded, blue, mocking evening light over this aging culture and its dull and dark seriousness! And if nonetheless our honesty one day grows tired and sighs and stretches its limbs and finds us too hard and would like to have things better, lighter, more loving, like a pleasing vice, let us remain hard, we final Stoics! And let us send her by way of help only what we have in us of devilry - our disgust with what is crude and approximate, our "nitimur in vetitum" [we seek what is forbidden], our courage as adventurers, our shrewd and discriminating curiosity, our most refined, most disguised, and most spiritual will to power and overcoming of the world which roams and swarms greedily around all future realms - let us come to the aid of our "God" with all our "devils"! It is likely that because of this people fail to recognize us and get us confused with others. What does that matter? People will say "Your ‘honesty'- that's your devilry, nothing more than that." What does that matter? Even if they were right! Haven't all gods up to now been like that, devils who became holy by being re-christened? And what finally do we know about ourselves? And that spirit which guides us, what does it want to be called? (It is a matter of names). And how many spirits are we hiding? Our honesty, we free spirits - let's take care that it does not become our vanity, our finery and splendour, our boundary, our stupidity! Every virtue tends towards stupidity; every stupidity tends towards virtue: "stupid all the way to holiness" people say in Russia - let's take care that we don't end up becoming saints and bores through honesty! Isn't life a hundred times too short to get bored with it? We'd already have to believe in eternal life, in order to. . . .

Beyond Good and Evil

The virtue of honesty is with us and terrible insight such pursuit has brought me.

I am terribly humiliated, but I am eternally grateful to myself.

I had the privilege to write it down on my diary as it happened, and I will attempt to transcribe it for this article.

“

May 6th, 2026…

I listen to my gut as if it were different from me.

“No, you are an emanation from me.”

“A product of synthesis.”1

“The later stage. The regressive tendency inside of you that must make life; your reality, digestible to your palate.”

…

…

“The justification you offer to yourself. That is what a brain is.2 That is what reason captures. It captures what it needs to maintain you alive, stable, and functional.”

This is the ego. What your gut needs you to believe.3

Suddenly, I’m not such an enigma at first sight. But, what is it that your— that I— that my world— that my reason— that activity— this becoming— this stability needs?

What truly shakes you is present every day as a faint feeling you cannot properly put into words.

Then gut, what must I… What must be done to be self-sufficient?

Hegelian? No!4

No reconciliation.

But also no battle.

At least, no battle against.

But, battle for the gut.

To make my gut strong.

To fix my stomach lining.

What stability have I been running to that keeps me— the one that destroys me!

The other? The evil eye?5

The other is only hell for those who cannot accept the atopic.6

Who must seize into one.

Therein lies their biggest strength.

The one to build kingdoms…

But also their biggest weakness

Everyone has a gut commanding them.

How strong their reason is; their delusion is, defines their stability. That which makes weaker wills… weaker guts… the slave… submit.7

Shaken— I am. This atopic nature of reason…

Oh, how must you be dealt with?8

How it has always been done?

Why is it then… I dream of self-sufficiency?9

Not to run from the other…

To be.. with/out the other.

Deep is the battle within. Shaken my gut… Shaken— I am.

I follow the questioning.

The gut does not seek to know itself.

Simply create a totality.10

The totalizing myth.

The gradations are of glory and defeat.

Totality and nothingness.

Certainty and shame.

To end up weak is to sin.

Nietzsche, you did nothing but place an eye on the gut.”

What is good? - All that heightens the feelings of power, the will to power, power itself in man. What is bad? - All that proceeds from weakness. What is happiness? - The feeling that power increases - that a resistance is overcome.

Twilight of the Idols

Wisdom of the gut. Wisdom from the gut.11

“

To be shaken by your own gut. What a terrible pleasure.

Speak to me! Amplify your voice.

I find there a truth for my kind. The ones who must protect their own taste… for their gut who has a likeness to mine.12

“You must be of good health to yourself.”

The war that is always within and never without.

The battlefield is at play constantly.

I’ve tasted this wisdom before hand from the well of twilight.

I have submerged myself today.13

Incomprehensible.

The so called “good”— The platonic form in which society is glued from the false moral world order.14

The so called “one”— who are you but my solar plexus?15

I am an enigma to totalize.

I am what I digest.

Digest and excrete.

My gift. A birth.

An ode to self-love.

A proper care to the kind.”

“I come to the conclusion that the period of gestation covered eighteen months. This period of exactly eighteen months, might suggest, at least to Buddhists, that I am in reality a female elephant. The interval was devoted to the Gaya Scienza…”

Ecce Homo

“

I’ll shout this.

Find those— Form those— Submit to those who are of your taste!

You, who seeks the authentic. Trample over that which isn’t you.”

..he uttered a devilish cry and jumped over the man who stood in his way.

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

“

The gut is manifest at sleep.

The voice of sleep currently talks.”

Here’s the wisdom that has come from honesty. A message to those who have ears for me.

My kind.

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   Words don't fit in you.
   Injustice you are to me.
   Death to all haikus.

   ---

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   A thousand paintings
   are never as meaningful
   as the one you chose.

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   Taste and scent linger.
   Poison sweet in memory.
   Sick without your touch.

   ---

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   Bloom in sun's delight.
   The bees fly to their flowers
   Bask in nectar's sweets.

   ---

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   Nighttime approaches.
   Incessant heart swells with angst.
   In slumber we'll meet.

   ---

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   Head up high, princess.
   Doubt's but folly to your reign.
   Sing! The world is yours.

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Write something and pass it on. I challenge you all.

I don’t know how to format yet. I stole a laptop for this.

Seeing myself in the gaze of others. Never truly finding myself in my own body but in my friends back in the city. I must admit, I hold these relationships in great regard, yet they ultimately poison my being. I am kept from my madness. All too sane.

Ah, give me madness, you heavenly powers! Madness, that I may at last believe in myself! Give deliriums and convulsions, sudden lights and darkness. Terrify me with frost and fire such as no mortal has ever felt, with deafening din and prowling figures. Make me howl and whine and crawl like a beast, so that I may only come to believe in myself. I am consumed by doubt. I have killed the law, and the law anguishes me as a corpse does a living man. If I am not more than the law I am the vilest of all men. The new spirit which is in me, whence is it if it is not from you? Prove to me that I am yours. Madness alone can prove it.

High up in the mountains, solitude’s fruits bear. I first moved to the mountains in will, then in conscience, and at last physically, seeking no other than myself. Mountains. Let the seeds of madness bear fruit. Let me squeeze the fruit and baptize myself in my truth.

As clear as the day and as mournful as the night.

The birds have all gone to their nests. Native air fills my lungs.

Contempt and solitude grow together.

Here I grow good…

I am not quick moving, I have to wait for myself. It is always late before the water comes to light out of the well of my self, and I often have to endure thirst longer than I have patience. That is why I go into solitude, so as not to drink out of everybody’s cistern. When I am among the many I live as the many do, and I do not think as I truly think. After a time it always seems as though they want to banish me from myself and rob me of my soul, and I grow angry with everybody and fear everybody. I then require the desert, so as to grow good again.

Allow this solitude to be justice unto myself as I distance myself from the world. My answers, my universal truths, are within me. I see clearly that the sun is the breadth of my foot, Heraclitus.

Here I must lie for a while. With this great pain in my chest I am enamored with…

Entry in my diary

I have been very busy with my ordinary life. Between study, work and working at two farms I barely have time to read but I have found a sliver of time to reflect and be myself. Great suffering awaits me.

I am reading Evola. He will be useful in the near future.

Three naked children by the lake,

the hypnotizing sound of the stream washes away all tenses.

One wears feathers knotted close, carrying untamed wonder and grandeur.

One anoints themself with cinders of parched roses, led by a self-sung song.

One cradles sweet, spilling fruit, an offering too overflowing.

Sun for a soul, so bright we disappear,

all others close their eyes and veer.

Boundless creation, born of the same,

we gift each other our own name.

(This poem came to me in a dream. After a long process of trying to get it back this is what I’m left with. Also, I have been told it is better to post poems in this format.)

In the night there is a temple that resides in my mind. It has its own architecture and its own authority. (I go there because I have started believing my dreams as messages that carry weight. Truths that speak in the Jungian register, symbolic, intimate, embarrassingly exact.) In that temple I find the Pythia.

Tradition says she purified herself, bathed, drank from sacred springs, descended into the inner room, mounted the tripod, took laurel into her mouth, and entered the ecstatic state in which Apollo spoke through her, sometimes with a sweet breath rising from the earth. Yet in my dreams, my Pythia arrives as a rebranded figure the way Zarathustra arrives. She is her own source. Her voice lands with the calm of someone who already owns the sun. Apollo in her presence reads like a name for what she already is.

I come to her with the kind of question that always reveals the asker. Her eyes hold command. Draw me in close. I seek desires core. Childlike purity. An affirming gaze on existence. Her divine spark flows freely. I approach her. Steps heavy with yearning. The temple gleams with white ash. Offerings stack under vast ceiling.

I expect a riddle. She gives me direction. She turns my attention to a fire that stays alive in the temple the way Rome kept the sacred fire of Vesta alive, tended, guarded, treated as the sign that the city still had a soul. In Delphi the rite moves with laurel and springs and barley meal and bay leaves burned to steady the mind.

In my dream the offering shifts into something harsher. There is a bone, close to the flame, almost like if the oracle’s power had condensed into a relic, as if divination came from what remains after life is cooked down to its hardest truth. The Pythia points, and the command feels simple in the way a verdict feels simple. Eternal glow in bronze basin. Etched by ages of smoke.

Fear rises first, clean and animal. I step into the fire. The burning lasts long enough to become a world. Pain teaches me its own grammar. Something in me collapses and something in me persists, and the difference between them becomes the lesson. The death feels real, physical, humiliating. The death is real… when I wake I am shaking in wet sheets, head pounding, skin overheated, the dream fades but im left carrying their fire upon my soul-body. Then, a sort of strange reversal happens. I feel completely whole. The fire performs alchemy upon souls. The morning arrives with a clarity that makes my ordinary worries look small and meek and I can feel how much energy I have spent trying to earn permission to exist.

Another night the temple returns with a different face. I seek the sun in the dark, my sun, with a certainty that fills the whole inner space. In the corridor before the adyton a divine child appears. He is naked. The child stands there bright and merciless. I try to stand my ground. The child rushes me he clutches a feather from his crown and presses it to throat. My body chooses flight with the same reflex that chooses breath. As I run, every instant becomes creation, almost joyful.

“A thought for myself. A pleasure for myself.”

I wake again with heat in my skull and salt on my skin, and the bemusement returns, yet it carries a different color, there is less confusion and I recognize that dreams keep insisting on a single fact. I am burning, and the burning is telling the truth. Then I realized, the Pythia has performed her deed. Quickly, a rush of pleasure and joviality overflow as I burn as hot as Icarus. I pick up my detached feathers and fly up once again to my sun during the next

Journal Entry — October 6, 2025

The impossibility of thinking how everything could be different, yet the urge to destroy and build anew, to give the spirit its proper justice (whatever that may be).

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The triangle: the symbol and hope of the unmistakable truth, as unmistakable as the truth of the world we are compelled to inhabit.

What life lies beyond my little culture? What other sacred rituals could shape or configure a new way to justify my existence (and I mean this in the most concrete way) other than passively waiting for nothing? Not the waiting of some corrective measure, nor the waiting of justice done to my spirit, but the act of giving my spirit its own justice.

We all face this truth, not just me, this Lovecraftian monster that no metaphysical explanation captures, whose essence eludes every attempt at domination. This monster is nothing other than reality itself: the crushing weight of truth, the weight of the real. To maturely think beyond it, to shape a new reality, has become the most daunting task.

In a sense we are in the world; as its product we express the world we live in. A true shift would require us to live beyond the world, perhaps a realm of non-being. But maybe even conceiving it, or relying on a future beyond myself, is a mistake. Progress, for me, could be nothing other than what has existed since time immemorial: the moral task of making the body and the world livable.

As Hegel shows in the Phenomenology of Spirit, we live truth in its full sense. Before questioning it, every human already inhabits reality, much like Heidegger’s “ready-to-hand” world, our natural modus operandi. And precisely for that reason philosophizing is, by its own merits, an extraordinary task for beings concerned with Dasein.

Who knows what the value of truth is to my cats? All I see is that they embody the ultimate consequence without caring for any of this, without anxieties, systems, or metaphysics. It would be a strange day indeed when my cat kills itself over Kant.

This question merits its own discussion, but I stay on course. Mark Fisher is a good example of why breaking reality, surpassing it, is a near impossible task. We live in capitalist realism, some culmination of history and the actualization of spirit. What system stands beyond this one? We have the material fortune to choose how we consume and to consume the world itself. Our suffering seems to have an answer for every need; resources and institutions give us stability; science promises to solve what is left.

Yet this democratized absence of suffering weakens the “sublative character” (Aufheben). In Hegelian terms, (and i dare say this) spirit arises only because there is such a thing as discomfort. But it is interesting when analized as not mere individual malaise but a structural phenomenon. Nevertheless, if our suffering supposedly has an answer, why the outcry? Well, that’s because anyone with a brain can see it isn’t true.

Suffering permeates the world and has found its place as a tyrant. We live under its rule, our will ransacked by comfort and the avoidance of pain. Progress has given us stability in exchange for life itself. All elevation and spiritualization of life is recast as oppression, so we are taught to aim for the bare minimum.

I feel the quiet violence of comfort. There is nothing I despise more than those who offer me the comfort of the world, who fight for my small destruction by defending my passivity. Their mercy disgusts me. Because I’ve seen, and I live, the weakness that follows, how this power to rule over our lives has given us the freedom to destroy ourselves.

How can I, immersed in commonness, step away from this commonality? How can I enact justice on my spirit? How strong must my arm be to put a new reality in motion, even at the cost of many, their dignity, their reality, their triangle?

In what world can my angst bear fruit? Am I mad to think I bear the responsibility to give meaning to the world? Is it madness to think I must break the triangle?