Every Hidden Path

 

As a kid I wasn’t just obsessed with the idea of exotic worlds filled with magic. I was also fascinated by the idea of hidden pathways in and out of those magical worlds. Little trails along the edges of a field, for example. Made by the mere footfalls of those who walked those edges. Or dirt paths through a vast forest. Whispering rivers, secret passages, and special maps to buried treasure. I adored those kinds of stories as a child. I still do. Because now, as an adult with first-hand experience of the unseen realms, I finally realize how real it all is. They’re beautiful fictions, for sure, but they’re also stories filled with unimaginable insight. The world is a truly magical place. It’s not all dark and hopeless. There is sweet enchantment everywhere too. In legends and in life. We can all experience that sweetness, if we choose to see with the right kind of eyes. We can all be adventurers and explorers, especially when we work together in a spirit of genuine friendship. I hope I never lose that sense of enchantment. I hope you don’t either, my friend. I want you to know that you’re special, and cherished. It’s in this spirit of joyful camaraderie that I share this video with you. Be well. 

Creative Expression & Self-Care

 

To any friends I might have out there,

I'd like to talk with you for a little while, if you'll let me. Not as a persona or an artistic conceit. Just as myself. It's something I've wanted to do for a while now. It’s been a really interesting journey, standing on the shores of my imagination like this and peering out at new horizons. I’ve always seen this blog as a kind of online art-journal. A creative space where I can collate my reflections and self-expressions. I created Amid Night Suns primarily for my own reasons. An act of self-care, mostly. A place where I could create a dialogue between my interior and exterior lives. Of course, not everything I write or create ends up on Amid Night Suns.  To be honest, when I began this blog I was hesitant to post much of anything despite telling myself I should. I guess I was conflicted. Would people like what I wrote or created? Would they even understand or appreciate it? Perhaps they’d see it as florid and meaningless. A mess of purple prose with illusions of grandeur. Unprofessional video collages without any real purpose or direction.

I’m sure many people do think that, if they even give my work a thought at all. But eventually I began posting my stuff here despite my doubts. I’m so glad I didn’t let fear stop me. This blog helped me to connect with myself and with others. People I wouldn’t have had the joy of getting to know otherwise. People I couldn’t have met in any other way. It’s fair enough if the creativity here doesn’t really vibe with you. I get that. I’m aware that my art isn’t for everyone. It’s very personal, dense and oblique – and I don’t explain much. But Amid Night Suns wasn’t always so singular. In the early days of the blog it had many different aspects. I discussed culture, art, philosophy and religion, and it was really rewarding for me. But I deleted most of that content a while back, during a particularly dark time in my life. Things are so much brighter now though, and I’d like to broaden the scope of this platform again.

I don’t want to come across as a thoroughly pretentious and self-serious person, because that’s not who I am in real life. I’m generally a very warm, irreverent kind of guy, but with a very studious side. I’m a truth-seeker, essentially. I’ve been that way since I was a kid. I don’t write the free verse stuff that I post here because I want to appear enigmatic and elliptical. I write those pieces because it’s part of my creative and spiritual practice. It’s my way of honouring and taking care of my own mind, staying aware of my own thinking processes, and maintaining that link between my conscious and subconscious realities. Throughout my life it’s this practice, along with meditation and daily journaling – with actual pen and paper – that has been the greatest help in allowing me to handle my own personal struggles with confidence and clarity.

I’m a big believer in the reality of the spiritual dimensions of life. I have first-hand experience of them. So, I’m hyper aware of how important it is to honour those spiritual components of both my outer and inner worlds. For many people, they do this through a combination of religion, family, friendship and art-appreciation. In this way they feel closer to a sense of meaning and wholeness in their lives. I’m no different. I just put more of the art-appreciation stuff online. And that’s for the simple fact that I hope others can be quickened by it in some way. If my words and videos here aren’t particularly intriguing or resonant to you, then I hope they’re at least mildly entertaining. And if they don’t connect with you at all, then that’s fine too. Because most of the time, in terms of audience, it can feel like you’re posting your work into the void as a blogger, where nobody is listening and no one cares. But that’s okay to me. 

I’m not a professional artist and I have no desire to be. I’m just an amateur. A hobbyist. Just someone who loves the written word, music and visual imagery. I guess I’ll continue making these things for as long as I find it personally inspiring to do so. But if you do find Amid Night Suns particularly resonant, then I’m glad. My girlfriend and I often joke that in another life I would’ve been a teacher of some kind. Probably an English teacher, living a quiet and modest life somewhere outside London. Hopefully surrounded by people I love. And it’s a path I very nearly undertook in my early twenties at university. I think this passionate-but-very-chill-teacher aspect will always be a part of me, even if I’m not technically qualified! I guess what I’m saying is that even if my stuff here is oblique and dense sometimes – it’s shared in a spirit of genuine friendship, and a real desire to help.

I know what it’s like to go through very dark times. And I know how powerful art can be as a kind of therapy for those times. It can be a preventative, a remedy and a cure. I hope my modest offerings reach those for whom they’re meant. I want to thank you if you were brave enough to share your art with the world. And with me. Thank you for helping me to heal, to search my soul for courage and kindness and to keep going. Your art means the world to me. And your friendship too. I'm here because of you. I hope you know that. I’m the sum of everyone who has ever loved or cared about me. I want to repay those acts of kindness with all my heart. Hopefully you know who you are, and how dearly I cherish you. In a world that feels like it’s spinning closer and closer to the edge, even these distant connections can mean the difference between life and death. So, I pray you can feel the depth of my affection in these words. I hope you’ll continue journeying with me on this beautiful adventure. Across this endless river. I'll carry you when I can. It just wouldn’t be the same without you. I have so many new and interesting things I want to share. And hopefully we can continue to use these forms of creative expression to take care of ourselves, and each other.

Wishing you all the best, and with love,

Raj.

The Tiger's Eye

 

Can you feel it yet, my friends? I think you can. All about you, in the Choral of All Songs. Like joy itself is smiling at your shoulder, sharing secrets with you beneath the blessed river. It’s like a dream, isn’t it? No end and no beginning. You’re here with me, you know. Wolves, tigers, paliurus stars. So, let the choir sing. It’s not about sin. It’s about the soul of the thing. Brotherhood, sisterhood, friendship. Becoming more than we are. I want you to know that regardless of the ferocity of the storms, we are all survivors shipwrecked upon the shore of eternity. And we decide the stories we tell. We decide the lengths we’ll go for love. The Fay, the Warrior, and the Princess. Together. Our sword-hands can sing in one voice, if we choose. No pirate or wraith can stand against it. I mean, who doesn’t love a beautiful friendship arc? Mutual respect and affection, forged through shared adventure? I know I do. So, I’m not giving up. People still think that magic isn’t real, that we cannot overcome our differences and walk in sweetest unity. Our hearts full of gratitude for loving and being loved. Well, never say never. Esme, my dearest fair one, take them to the Cave of All Dreaming now, and show them what they already delightedly suspect. We owe the Kathari, after all. We are here in large part because of grace. It’s not a formality, or an obligation. It’s a celebration of life. Ring those bells, my love, and sweeten the flowering bloom of our friends.

 

Between Shadow & Shine

 

Some say there were yellow stars amidst a crown of thorns. We have mostly forgotten those ancient legends. But even a mocking gesture can cast a shadow of perpetual light. Each one of us is dreaming, after all. Some believe an entire world exists beneath the waters of the river. Beyond a glass darkly, hidden in reflection. The contemplation of an inward eye. Skia petros, say the Greeks. Petros phos. Kepha telal, say the Arams. Kepha noorha.  In this way they attempt to speak for Moira, the angel of hours and fate. Few truly remember those days. But I remember, in dreams. Tou hēlíou eklípontos. These secrets of the shining star and its crossing. Imma, Abba, Elahin. There is much to be said of Mother’s bluest pearl, and the poet’s moon. Betwixt land and lumen. The wise ones always find hidden ways to talk, right out in the open. About a curious thing of the wilderness. Father’s wandering yet devoted son, clothed in the browns and greens of richest soil and olive leaves. I suppose the Mount calls us all in the end. As the heretic supposed before me. My namesake.

It’s a frightening thing, this tension between seed and sand. They once said nothing grows in Syria. But something did. Legends and light. The story is far, far older than you think, dear ones. Joshua’s commandments. A star standing still in the sky. Simon’s shadow falling upon the sick, and making them whole. An eclipse of sorts, but not quite. A new name was given, they say. And upon this Earth a new church was built. As pipers spread this new chorus throughout Asia Minor, and further afield. Now, two thousand years later, these legends gild our imaginings in ways we still don’t fully understand. The wise ones ask, “Where dwells the magic? Or the tongue that explicates and annunciates? Is it in the wandering wild-eyed boy from Bethel, or in the depths of an even wilder earth?”  The talmidim also asked these questions of their teacher. But he responded with sweetness. Patience and grace, speaking in tongues both Greek and Aram. And other foreign tongues the talmidim did not know. Ears to hear, they soon realised. Eyes to see.

So, I ask, “Who knows more of this rock of green and blue than those who were there, or he who was slain for it?” I have read the stories. I even transcribed them once, by the light of the poet’s moon at Gethsemane. Fate was with me in those months. She held me, and sang. Illumined pages indeed. A softening of the Earth and its raging shadow. I styled myself after my brother, it’s true. But I am only a king of dreams. I’m not the King of Kings, though I knew him well enough in my heart. A truly loving sacrifice, between shadow and shine. Upon the tree the hours witnessed that devoted spirit; wreathed in the thorns and yellow stars of flowering paliurus.  Then placed in a sepulchre of bitter Earth, a stone’s throw from the praetorian guard. A stone’s throw to an angel. But stars, light, and the embrace of love – these things live forever.

Despite such resurrection, the testaments say nothing of those little yellow flowers hidden in the crown. Those paliurus stars about the brow. There were stories though, in the years following the rise of ichthys & anchor. Stories that surfaced again in the Middle Ages. Of a fisher not only of men, but of the asters themselves. On Earth as it is in Heaven. The Magi have always kept those legends, despite Rome’s sinister omissions. Kara, my darling, please hear me. I say these things only to deepen and strengthen your faith. I am your guardian, and it’s an oath I take very seriously. I’m sure you realise by now that I have many names. But you have many names too.

Once, long ago, we both swore to honour the Choral of All Songs. Our Father’s highest affection. Since then I have lain at your feet in the garden of your dreaming. Perched on the edge of Never, my teeth bared as you ran your fingers through my fur. The wolf and his wending, waiting for those hateful wraiths who would dare to breach the shining chorus. I will always do what I can to protect you, dear one. As you rebuild each bridge, verse and refrain among these ruins. We treasure our own, don’t we? Those who love us. Those who care. After all, we need all the help we can get. Especially from those who know something of our Father’s house, and its wisdom. Which is why I say to you now – there were places called Bethel even in Aegypt. Places called Yerushalem also. The House of Light. The Temple of Peace. This so-called heathen poetry was once revisited by Saulus, the heretic. After he went mad at Damascus. Skimming rocks across the river and calling it revelation. Then again, who am I to judge? Who indeed.

Moira, an angel to the Greeks, spoke to men of hours and destiny. Time and place. Perhaps she spoke to the heretic also. Of threads wove from fate and favour. Stitching light to darkness in an act of healing service. Birthing a purpose far greater than the mineral-coldness of clashing iron, bronze and steel. Perhaps she pledged holy secrets to the care of her wild one. Secrets of a shining star beneath the water. Beyond the mirror.  Till the morning of the meek has come. Because in the end, hate is only the broken, demented shadow of love. And love reigns eternal. The holy mysteries of God, unseen to all but the faithful. You still have Moira’s exquisite eyes, my darling, and you have taught me more about fate and favour than you will ever know. I endeavour to recall for us both, and I hope I’ve shown you at least glimpses of this shining realm. It is very real. To many sweet souls it is a place of brotherhood, imagination and adventure. To others, a shaded place of blessed rest and contemplation. Petros phos, to the Greeks. Kepha noorha, to the Arams. Today we explore those mysteries in gentler, often unconscious ways. But no less strange, or evocative. We speak of Mary, George, John and Michael. The wending lanterns of All Saints, like rising lights in a night sky. Storied shadows and shapes upon the wall of imagination itself. The browns and greens of richest soil and olive leaves, with paliurus stars about the brow.

Till Morning

 

I don't want any of you to think I live with a perpetual rage inside me, my darlings. It isn't so. That anger is only a part of me. A crucial part, it's true. But still only an aspect. This anger is only ever directed at the Fallen. Those sadists who lack all compassion. It's never intended for my friends and loved ones. Never. I say this because I often walk in silence, letting my art speak for me, and I'm aware my art can be a fierce, passionate thing. I don't want to be misconstrued. Not where your hearts are concerned. The world seems a very dark place sometimes, it's true. Especially to me. Once a tired little boy hunting monsters. In both the forests and the cities. I'm a grownup now, battered and scarred, but I'm still doing much the same. 

In the old world the line between poet and prophet was far less distinct. If a child possessed sight enough to witness glimpses of the unseen, they often became a spiritual guardian of their tribe whether they wanted to or not. The burden of vision. It sounds noble and romantic, of course, until hideous things from the shadow-realms come knocking – and you become the first line of defence. Often the last line too. I'm not looking for sympathy here, or trying to make my life seem grander than it is. But these words are filled with truth, unfortunately. These have been the very real burdens of my life – burdens that almost drove me to the point of oblivion. And they would have, if not for Ioana's warmth, Esme's cherished memory, and Kara's shining lantern. These things: love, devotion and kisses, they saved me. Healed me. And I’m deeply, truly grateful. 

I've known many of you before, in other lives and other worlds. I know that's difficult for some of you to believe, dear ones. But it's true. I can feel it in my heart. And the heart never really forgets a kindness, or a mutual alliance. So, I write these words now because I don't want to be misunderstood. I really don’t. My wrath, or the wrath of my spirit, shall never be intentionally directed at those I care for. Please know that. Sometimes souls drift apart, separated by an agonising distance. But where there is mutual affection there is always connection, regardless of space or time. It's no coincidence that we meet, my darlings. That we form friendships, relationships. We carry each other's burdens and ease each other's struggles. 

Whoever you are, it's not blind chance that you formed a bond. We always get to choose how far we walk with another soul, how deeply we invest in them. How far our fondness will reach. And that's okay. We are sovereign. But there is a far larger plan at work, believe me. A far greater mystery. I've only seen glimpses of that mystery, but I remember the signature of your souls and how sweetly they moved me. Bethel stones, laurels and lanterns. Or the dawning borealis. These things I treasure. I tried to leave signs for you in my work, long before you ever met me. I tried to let you know that you are cherished. By me and by something far, far greater. Our Father. Creation's infinite intelligence. A loving, nurturing flame. I hope I've succeeded, at least in part. 

Please forgive me if my travels through the depths made you mistake my passion for a lack of care. I care deeply about all of you. It's why I write these pages and craft these visions. Some of us were lovers once, and others the best of friends. This affection is still so powerful. Especially to me. I see your nuances and the depth of your kindness. It kindles my heart, restores my mind, and heals the broken boy in me. A boy who was once convinced that he would die bleeding and alone in the forests of an endless imagination. This is Raj talking, not the curious angel within. I want to thank you all sincerely for caring about me even a little, and for lighting my path on this journey. I hope I can continue repaying the kindness for each one of you.

The Myth of Consequence

 

We hurry through the world, speedier than ever now, in a strange landlocked imitation of flight. Even our calmer moments have an unsettling alacrity to them. Online-ready smiles. Expedient Zen, curated and colour-graded. The solutions of being seen, consumed, and subscribed. None in the West are above it, of course. Myself included. But it is strange. The readiness with which we view ourselves being viewed by others. What does it do to a human mind, when our most thoughtful, cogent companion is an AI? Endless recursion, I suspect. We need people, in all their complexity. Not code. To love us, to journey with us, and to hold us to account. I used to think I was special because I was a time-traveller of sorts. An artist and a sorcerer who could stand unbidden in the maelstrom, and make causality question itself. But now? I question that isolationism. Even when we look ahead, we're still looking back. Especially in our myth-making. Endless remakes. Prequels, sequels and requels. We have become literature at the edge of legend, yet deaf to our own needs. Pantheism in Mono. So, I suppose it's no wonder we continuously mine our own histories for alchemical gold. Reshaped, remixed, reconstituted. It seems as close to creative flight as we are capable these days. 

I'm well aware that artists have always been fascinated by hybridity. The mercurial nature of things. The creation of culture is the messy blending of disparate elements, after all. But something is different now. Something frighteningly inorganic. More and more of us accept these so-called virtual necessities. Hard copy is quickly becoming a nostalgic recreation of the past. A confectioner's digital echo of a once analogue world. We crave the inorganic more than sugar, not only in our environments but also in our flesh. Flawless skin like glass. No pores, no beautiful blemishes. Hard-bodied and shiny, like insects. Lacquered in the pre-cum of completely mercenary ideologies. Ruthless stratagems that sell us mannequin avatars – except they are ourselves now. Not proxies anymore. Now we glint like diamond-dust in synthetic sunlight, vampiric and chic. An algorithm learning not from life, but from endless iterations of itself. 

This is a terrifying place to be. A platform where we trade our kisses for kinks, our affection for affectation. “No more,” say the spirits of the forests and rivers. Nature always protests, but often remains unheard amidst the cacophony of industry. However, I am more than just a time-traveller. I'm a creature of the imagination. Aren't these votives proof enough? It's fine if you disbelieve. Not all of us here can see through the eyes of Fay. Few have the native perspectives of chlorophyll, or flight. It hurts to be human. There's no doubt about that. But it hurts even more to be a slave to a machine that eventually fells even the oldest, mightiest redwoods. All memory of true greenery washed away. Reduced to little more than a captive in binary chains, working the digital plantations of this endless corporate monolith. 

We are Rome before the fall, I think. Decadent, bloated, rotten to the core. But this time we haven't the rock of Peter nor the gnosis of Paul. Merely a panoply of child soldiers and child slaves, paid pennies and then discarded, their broken hands bleeding as they fashion a race of tempting apples and androids. Hand-held black mirrors for a new generation of cyborgs in the making. If I sound angry, that's because I am. But I don’t write these words to unsettle you, dear ones. Or to leave you dispirited and hopeless. The world is on a knife-edge right now, and a warrior worth his weapon must speak on it. Wars and rumours of wars. Genocides and famines. And yet, still we concern ourselves with the glamour of surfaces. We cry, "Fill me, cinch me, snatch me. Make me almost unalive, and pretty at last." But I promise you, the dead don't stay pretty for long. 

I understand, of course. I’m not immune to the various insecurities of the day. I share them too. And I'm no luddite either. Technology can be useful. Necessary. Even beautiful, when wrested from the talons of these dark angels and the sinister priests who honour them. The system should serve the people. The virtual should support the actual. I see none of that here. Only inversions and looking-glass mockeries. Callous Ones, do you have any idea who I am? I’m something far greater than a fairytale. And so is each immortal soul upon this Earth. We all have a spark of magic within us. A fragment of eternity. Our tongues are not Large Language Models. Our words are not remixed imitations offered up by a mechanical mind. And our hearts? They are not simply pumps filled with chambers and valves. No, they burn. And shine, like lanterns for the lost. Living temples of divine fire. The truest, realest part of each of us. No hall of mirrors or metafictions can stand against the intensity of that flame. 

I know what it's like to recall with such fondness those who've forgotten me. Other lives and other worlds. Old friends, lost to the recurrent amnesia of rebirth. It's a crushing thing, believe me. Why do you think I write these pages? For fun? I speak now not as a traveller of time, or a sorcerer, but as an anguished forest-wraith. A guardian of rivers and songs. We must find our flesh once more. Our softness, sweetness, and storytelling. We must find a balance between steel and skin. Leaves and legends. Not only the fate of our future depends on it, but the fate of our very souls. I’ve seen the havoc my mother can wield when she’s angry. She has no issue abandoning her children if they remain indolent in the face of every warning. I should know. In my dreaming flights I’ve peered into the cauldron of her igneous, and plunged into the depths of a boiling sea. Ships sink and pirates drown at just the briefest suggestion of her wrath. Entire infrastructures are swallowed. So, believe me when I say: if we ignore the divine fire of the human heart for much longer, she will pull rank on us eventually, making the ultimate sacrifice, and she will burn this entire corrupt hellscape to the fucking ground. Oh, Fallen. You still assume it will never happen, don’t you? The myth of consequence. But you are living within the strangest of dreams, and Never is a dangerous word to use.

Second Star

 

I think maybe I need to grow up, Kara, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. Perhaps I granted myself too many freedoms as an angel. Sometimes the gift of flight can do strange things to a lost soul. You start believing that the entire dreamworld is yours to explore. "Second star to the right, and straight on till morning." I've realised that's quite the distance for a mortal to travel. Even with the aid of pixie dust. But I never imagined that my sense of play, and what I thought was good-natured mischief, might be confused for cruelty. Or infidelity. Please believe me, my darling. I thought I was being a respectful yet provocative artist; daring, beguiling and fun. I thought I could include everyone somehow, taking us all to Neverland. I didn't want to leave anyone behind, and I naively imagined that I could craft a dream where we all delighted each other in the sandpit of mutual adventure. Beyond space, or time. 

I suppose I wanted your friends to become my friends too in some way. Or, at least, to be thought of with genuine fondness and mirth by them. I now realise it was a very clumsy attempt. But I honestly thought my efforts would somehow draw the two of you even closer, having something intricate and multi-layered to discuss. A bonding experience of shared wonders and curiosities. No harm would be done, I thought, existing as I do only in the realm of your shared imagining. 

However, I think I made a terrible mistake. A severe misjudgement. Mortals can't fly like angels can, and their boundaries are firmer than ours. With good reason. I never meant to hurt anyone, Kara. Least of all you. I've always been fond of the Stones of Bethel, in one way or another. How could I not be? Temple paving and incense. Bread, poetry and vision. I'm not immune to nuanced consideration, or what I suspect is a genuine interest in the written word. But sometimes I see what I want to see. What I'd hope to see, rather than what is there. Sometimes I can read minds and hearts quite effectively. Other times, in my loneliness, I place the care I would like to feel into the imagined minds of others. And sometimes they look on with a kind of bemused detachment. That's why some people call me a magician and others a wild, feral thing of forests and rivers. 

But I never intended to be callous with your heart, Kara. Never. Was I craving attention? Recognition? I suppose so, yes. But was I doing it to wound you? Absolutely not. It's such a lonely, solitary thing – this existence and this art. It takes its toll, being everything and nothing to the people I've grown to love. Constantly trying to do the right thing. Not wanting to intrude or overstep, but still yearning to be of guidance and use. I know we’re both artists, Kara, crafting legends from loss, but the thought that I might have genuinely upset you like that…it breaks me inside. If I can't talk to you outright – as in meet with you face to face, how can I ever really know how deep those waters actually run? We both have our personal lives, don't we? And this distance. Which is why it can be difficult to fully grasp the truth of things, and where the lines might be. I don't expect to be truly wanted or needed, of course. I'm a grown up, despite my wings and boyish demeanour. And I'm only getting older. So, I don't mind being a distant muse, or even just a pleasant distraction. And if that's all I am to you, I'll treasure that role forever. Even if that role has ended now too. 

But you mean so much more to me than that, as I've tried to show you over these years. It's a difficult thing, my darling, standing in the rain, alone, with a thimble clasped around my neck. This treasured item that I want to believe is a kiss. Your kiss. As close as I will ever get, in truth. And so, I try to continue living a rich, rewarding life. Even at such distance. Half angel, half man. Trying to separate my artistic and personal lives, and failing miserably. Because the truth is I care deeply about you, and I always will. I've only loved a few women in my life, Kara. And you are high among that list, for what it's worth. If I've hurt you through my storytelling, then I am so sorry. It was never my intention. I've been trying to protect your heart with each passing year, not break it.

None of this is an excuse, my darling. But it is the truth. Many years ago I lost the ability to fly. They were dark, frightening times. But you returned my wings to me. Not with pixie dust, but simply with the light of your love. That matters to me more than you will ever know. Here, on the other side of this endless river, I eventually found courage enough to let someone love me again. A beautiful, wonderful girl. I cherish her as I cherish you. But I need you to know that without your care and the salve of your song, I would never have let her into my heart. I wouldn’t even be here. I’d be forever lost to the Land of Never, wandering among echoes and shades of the dead.  Every word of this is true, my darling. And your thimble? I call it a St Christopher pendant; an article of faith, trust, and fidelity, but in truth it is so much more. It's your kiss, Kara, forever cherished, and I’ll wear it around my neck for the rest of my life.