Namramurti

 

Hi, friends! Welcome back to Amid Night Suns. So, a while back I said I'd start posting more fiction to this blog's sister site, The Night Sun. It's a platform I set up for that very purpose, because the formatting here in blogger is difficult when you're trying to post narrative content. Short stories just read better over there. For an optimal experience I'd suggest reading those pieces on the desktop site rather than the mobile version, as there's less glitches.

Either way, there's already two other pieces up, and I've been working hard on the third for the last week or so. Like I've said before, I'm not a professional writer by any means, but storytelling is something I genuinely adore. I hope to continue improving as a storyteller purely for the love of the craft – and because I truly believe it's one of the most powerful ways to connect with ourselves, with each other, and with the complex realities of the wider world.

I've always believed that stories help us grow. They help us process difficult emotions, cultivating empathy and spiritual insight. For me, I always feel closest to the mysteries of God when I can immerse myself in the joys of art. I hope I can do the same for you with my modest contributions. So, my latest piece is a short story called Namramurti. I hope it entertains, quickens or moves you in some way. Also, Happy Valentine's Day, my friends! I wrote this for you. Wishing you all the best, with much love and respect, Raj.

https://thenightsun.wixsite.com/thenightsun/post/namramurti

The Seamstress and the Soul

 

I know your hunger better than you imagine, my radiant kiir. I know your thirst. Not in the sense of domineering patriarchs who falsely claim to grasp the unspoken secrets of the innermost. But in the sense of one who walked with you before the earth was shaped. Before the sky was raised to life and lumen. Dreamwalking, I suppose it might be called now, across bridges of shine and shimmer. Through verse and refrain. Together we wandered through shifting fictions, half-concealed. This isn’t presumption. I presume nothing here in this endless, blinding black. I recall your hunger only because I shared it.

Nobody drank the twinning river like we did, Afkarr. From chalices of gold, or from the hull of a lifted longship. The sea of stars had three-faces in those days. So, drink with me now, Mother of Myth. Keeper of Twine. In honour of Verdandi. Much like T’alis, night-bard of the shining brow, or M’ithriin of the hidden-folk, my storytelling doesn’t begin or end at the North Way, or upon the shattered straits that once connected our lands to Albion. Beloved, you and your sisters are far older than that. Older than Yarden’s ebb, or those lost whispers of Navah’tri.

Stones into bread, my dear one. Rivers into red. Long before Man first found a form for story. The taste of cherry. The stain of grape. In every word there is wine, believe me. I sang such lyric first, long before the little one was even a glimmer. Then again, I was taught everything I know by the darkling dawn. Nobody steals the river’s heart like the Choristers of All Songs. Know it in your bones, seamstress. Know it in your soul.  I was a Victorian long before the night began its thousand-year exile. I was a hooded thief of dreams in the wilderness. A ghost among men, crafted to perfection. But I didn’t weave the depths of those myths alone. I wouldn’t have had the skill. I needed help from a speaker of threads. A supernal one who knew the value and strength of cloth, the armour of accent.  

I was a wild rebel and you made me an elegant wraith, my love. A spirit that men respected and feared. I was a seer, a thing of visions and prophecy, yet you made me a standing one. Something larger than space, or time.  A voice that would echo. A visage unforgotten though half-concealed. Indeed, Ka’rai, you knew me then. We have always been more than lovers, or friends. We were co-conspirators in those darkest of days. Storytellers safeguarding the Soul. Blessed with winged imagination. Enough to spark a chatter at the city’s edge. They still talk about us, my imperatrix. All these centuries later. Witches, and kings. They have no fucking idea. But you do, if only just a little. And in dreams. The flesh in the fruit and the blood in the wine, as when the dark dresses lightly. Silently so.

It’s because of your genius that I was even able to thread that needle of creation with a thrice-great star.  Birth, and birth-rights. So, I thank you now, seamstress. And I offer you this token, this modest gift, like a kiss upon the collar. Cherry upon the lips of my wildest weaver. From your mouth to mine, and mine to yours again. The stain of grape, and ferment. The dizzying pull, full-bodied, with notes of freedom and raven-feather. Fly well, my raging fury. Fly to the river, and drink it dry. You know my hunger far better than you realise. You know my thirst.

The Best Policy

 

These days, so many people lie to themselves constantly. Often, they forget they’re even doing it. Lost in the depths of delusion or entitlement. But that internal deceit is a path towards madness and ruin. Because it's not about what others do, or how others live. It's about all the subtle ways we self-sabotage. So many of us spend our time running from pain towards fleeting pleasures whilst grasping the complexities of neither. But everything has consequences, even our misguided attempts at comforting ourselves. The fact is so many of us are genuinely oppressed and mistreated. Reeling from various traumas we can’t fully process with just our logical, rational minds. Often, we need a gentler touch. A deeper insight. But in our exhaustion and shame we sometimes hide our insecurities and portray our pain as empowerment. We wear masks of congeniality whilst seething underneath. Fury, or confusion. The best of us mean no harm to others, of course, and yet we harm ourselves continually. Locked in cycles of distraction, doubt, or fear.

We can definitely change all that. Each one of us. But it requires a radical kind of honesty. Many people say they want to change their lives, but lasting positive change rarely comes without insight or effort. No one can walk the treacherous path of life on our behalf. Nobody can self-actualize for us, or overcome those private torments with a simple act of magic. Male or female, old or young, our struggles are remarkably similar in the end. They might present themselves differently, but they all stem from the gulf between what is and what might be. In that gulf is the place where wisdom can be cultivated.

But we don't have to seek this wisdom entirely alone. Thank God. There are elders, teachers and friends who can offer us tools and strategies for moving forward. Especially when we're willing to put aside our various fears and suppositions, and really listen. Seeing with an inward eye. That kind of openness and honesty takes courage, it's true. It can be terrifying in the beginning – confronting our demons, recognising our own shadows. All the wounds that haven't yet healed. But it's how I and others like me overcame exceedingly difficult childhoods. It's how all of us can find invaluable pride in the adults we're trying to be today. So, if I can share the insights that have guided me, and in doing so help you to know yourselves on a deeper level, then I feel like my time on this earth will continue to be useful. Wishing you all the best, my friends, and with love, Raj

The Nights Hospitaller

 

The dark can be fecund, Esme. We both know that. Not merely frightening. A womb of mysteries. Nurturing, wild, and inconceivably ancient. All those things the first-century patriarchs tried so hard to control. Or annihilate. Femininity itself. But we remember the transgressive fluttering of wings in the temple, don’t we? Nightingales in the corridors. I recall the resplendent thrill, and how willingly we tore the veil.

You told me these were glories in the minds of stone-maidens, each palm anointed with forethought. The innermost sanctum. Thank you for entrusting me with these softer, stranger secrets. There were few oracles who would have trusted a man with that level of knowledge. Even a river-wraith like me; familiar with menses, mud and rain. Your faith was not misplaced, dear one. But our world grew increasingly hostile. It’s a pity that in my raging grief I fell so far from grace. Midnight of the Day.

I hope you never remember, Esme. I hope you think it a storyteller’s useful conceit. Because the truth was just too devastating. Even for those like us. Rebels and seers who walked unapologetic and barefoot through collapsing stone. My dawning borealis, hear me. Thank you for still caring about the little ones. The weak and wounded. Those of different skin and different song. Even when most would rather turn a blind eye, pretending to have no opinion at all. Because it’s easier and requires so little from any of us.

But I know the price paid for such blindness. We both do, don’t we? Like my namesake, waist-deep in Damascus waters. Hunted and delirious. It’s wonderful though, watching you now explore these other aspects of yourself. More than a maiden of hand and shield. More than a gate of polar light in a blackened sky. I recall you at the river’s edge, like a fallen star. That’s how I remember you sometimes. Your sphere of influence like a shifting crater. Your very existence a collision of earth and heaven.

I recall you braiding shanti charms into your hair, traded from merchants of the east. Decorating your hands and feet in mehndi, singing fragments of the old songs in high Koine and rural Aram. A scandalous confusion, they would have called you. A living blasphemy. But you were unafraid of such labels, my Kashika. Moonblood of the most-high, till all are free, or let them cut the tongue from my mouth. The dark can be fecund, Esme. Just as you taught me.

I’m a little better at directing my rage these days, but no less wild. You, above all others, know that side of me all too well. We shared everything, after all. Your name was my name, once upon. Before Roma ran us through. Before they filled Yarden’s ebb with filth.  I walked with you among the good, and the kind. I still do, in dreams. Dance the tide, my love. Explore every subtlety and nuance in your hidden places. I shall champion you quietly, here among the weak and wounded.

We are more than Magi and mightier than any military. Greater than a first-century genocide, or a twelfth-century fever dream. These are powers far deeper than those fears of the sword. Know it in your bones, Esme. We are forbidden wings fluttering before the flame, formed of fire ourselves. We are nightingales singing in the corridors of the voiceless, granting them voice. I remain unafraid, wild-eyed and smiling before my oppressors. As you did. Midnight is still the Day, my warrior. We are the dawn and its progenitor. In this way of secrets and circles, the truth is all too apparent for those with eyes to see. The night has always belonged to us both.   

Chapters of the Year

 

If life can be likened to a novel, then perhaps we can look at the beginning of each new year as a chapter heading. A time to gather our present moment awareness and focus our intentions. Our lives might not have the structure and tropes of a good story, but at the very least we're most certainly the main characters of our own lives. We’re influenced by stories constantly. We’re embedded in them.

Psychologically speaking, we have no choice but to use narrative techniques and rhetorical devices to organise our lives. This organisation is key. Events during our day could be viewed as paragraphs within the larger scenes, or scenes within the larger chapters. Regardless of how we divide up time in a calendrical sense, these doorways and thresholds are of immense value experientially. They matter in terms of perception, and perception is something we cannot stop doing. It’s a consistent pursuit, whether consciously or unconsciously. During moments of wakefulness and sleep.

I use a word like pursuit rather than activity to highlight the agency and discretion we have regarding the things we perceive. It’s an easy thing to forget, isn’t it? That we have a large measure of control over the way we colour our experience with the quality of our thinking. In many ways we’re simply bearing witness to external events, and we need critical thinking to discern the truth of things playing out in front of us. But in other equally crucial ways we’re crafting the lenses through which we interpret those events from our own internal processes. Our hopes, dreams, fears, and insecurities.

The more conscious we can be of this interplay, the better equipped we’ll be to manage life’s challenges and savour its opportunities. For me, the goal of these writings is inspiration. I want to function as muse and psychopomp to those I love. My family and friends, near or far. Sometimes it hurts to admit how much we care. How deep our waters run. But there is great strength even in vulnerability. It can connect as much as it exposes. One just needs to know how to wield it.

In Roman mythology we have the god Janus, from which we get the month of January. He was famously a being of both ways. A god with two faces. One looking back into the past and the other looking forward into the future. He’s often associated with thresholds, transitions, and the secrets of time. This is a solid metaphor for how we can conceptualise our own present moment awareness, especially within the context of our larger personal consciousness.

As Confucius supposedly said, “No matter where you go, there you are.” The present is everywhere, or nowhere. Now Here. But we're always navigating this eternal moment by reflecting on the past and strategizing for the future. How fluidly we achieve this balance is how we determine our own quality of life, right? Well, a big part of this qualitative appreciation is about gratitude.

In my own life I’ve found it easiest to maintain this gratitude when I can achieve a balance between genuine self-reflection, a sober and astute understanding of my past, and a hopeful anticipation of the future. This combination between a real grasp of where I've come from and where I’m headed allows me to feel at my most poised and adaptable. When I can achieve this synthesis of insight and adventure, I feel like I have real agency. I feel like an artist. Full of vitality, curiosity, and delight.

Also, I’m a sucker for happy endings. I love reading novels where the protagonists transform for the better, becoming more than they were in an emotional and spiritual sense. Self-reflection is a magical thing, after all. It makes us the audience as well as the author of our own lives. So, here’s to both reading and writing the next chapter of our lives with adaptability, intention, and skill. Fill your stories with the magic of who you really are. Live a vibrant, loving life. The ones who love you in equal measure will cherish the tales you tell.

Father of the Man

 

Intention is crucial in this life, even as we strive for adaptability. Many of us might crave the poise and balance of a dancer, moving with flow as changing circumstances require, but it’s also important to have purpose. To be mindful. We don’t need to have the bigger picture figured out, of course. Perhaps we only grasp the next few steps. The next few days, or even just the next few minutes. And that’s ok. It always hurts when we break, when we veer off track and our demons briefly get the better of us. But it’s important to catch ourselves as quickly as possible and not get sucked into self-punishment or shame-spirals. I’ve been there, of course. Most of us have, even if we don’t admit it. But it’s a waste of time and energy, being so harsh with ourselves.  In contrast, being kind about our own mistakes or lapses in judgment isn’t always easy, but it’s definitely worth the effort.

That’s what I’ve come to realise over the years. Giving ourselves grace during difficult times doesn’t have to be about making excuses. It can simply be a matter of contextual awareness and perspective. Self-knowledge is about many things, after all. Insight, sobriety, and a genuine willingness to understand where we went wrong. Our limitations, insecurities, and blind-spots. With that willingness comes the opportunity for actual growth in so many areas of our lives. For me, consistency in this process of self-discovery has been key. Exercise, meditation, journalling, and creativity of all kinds. The artist in me feels most content when I can keep that mind-body-spirit connection as vibrant as possible, even during my darkest or loneliest moments.

We sit so often with our demons and insecurities that we can quickly forget just how tenacious we are, or we gloss over it because our failures seem so glaring in comparison. We’re often our harshest critics. But we’re still here, aren’t we? Whatever state we find ourselves in, we’ve all made it this far. And positive change is always possible, however we choose to define it. For some, it’s climbing a mountain. For others it’s simply getting out of bed one more time. It can also be about deciding to no longer accept the bare minimum in matters of the heart. To start choosing healthy, mutually supportive relationships. Or learning to be alone again, at least until our insight has deepened. Our metrics for success might differ, but a win is still a win. What I’ve come to realise in my own journey is that I owe my vastly improved quality of life to that broken but tenacious version of me from before. He did the difficult first half, with just hope and commitment. He got up every single time he was knocked down. He didn’t have the energy, resources, or hindsight that I have now – and yet he never quit. He just kept going, kept learning, and tried not to punish himself too harshly when he didn’t meet his own expectations. His willingness to understand and grow was genuine. What I’m trying to say is I now have true momentum, confidence and swagger in various areas of my life only because that stumbling, inexperienced version of me kept showing up in the first place. Even when it was excruciating. I owe him, big time.

There’s a line from a poem by William Wordsworth called ‘My Heart Leaps Up,’ written in 1802, that has always stayed with me. The line reads: The Child is father of the Man. And progress is exactly like that. The past versions of ourselves who were brave enough to keep going, consistently learning and evolving – they’re the ones who birth the men or women we eventually become. We are profoundly shaped by our past experiences, both bright and dark. Also, pain is often a great teacher. Much as we might wish otherwise. So, knowing these things, it really is imperative to be gentle with ourselves. Most of us are striving even when we think we’re failing miserably. If we feel like we’re lost in unfathomable darkness, then it's all the more important to be reminded of the truth. That our future selves are built from every incremental win and insight. So, stay strong, dear ones. And remember, you don’t have to do all of this alone. Because if we’re genuinely willing to grow and move forward, then we shouldn’t be ashamed to also ask for a little help from the people closest to us. Our family and friends. Just reach out. The real ones will offer their assistance in some way. Begin each task with a spirit of genuine curiosity. You don’t need to know the entire path. Just move forward with grace and intention. And when you fall, pick yourself up, adjust as necessary, and keep going with a sense of grateful adventure. It won’t always be easy, or painless, but I promise it will eventually reap great rewards. Your future self will thank you; that’s for sure.

Happy New Year, my friends.

Wishing you all the best, and with love,

Raj.

The Clearest Sea

 

It's such a loaded, dangerous term: clairvoyance. The art of clear seeing, like water from the rock. Clarity in an opaque world. Many people don't want to believe it's even possible, especially in this numb, excoriated culture. It makes them nervous, I suppose. That certain souls might be able to perceive things through extra-sensory means. Things that some men would rather remain hidden. Because we live in a world of surfaces and secrets, don't we? A world in which the threshold between the sign and the thing signified is becoming increasingly bizarre. We’ve lost touch with the sensations of rain. The sounds and rhythms of the river. And the sea.

But there have always been empaths, intuitives and seers. Those immersed in the inner waters. They’ve been both cherished and hunted all throughout human history. Not only in Yarden's ebb, or the shores of HaGalil. But by the elect of Rome, Greece, and oldest Egypt. These adepts of the gnosis are still invaluable even today. To occult societies, illegal black projects, and private defence contractors alike. We often call them remote viewers now, among other things. Telepaths and telekinetics. Those who can move and manipulate the electromagnetic spectrum in the subtlest of ways. Particles and polarities. Shadows, or light. Because water is indeed our eye, as the siren sang. Most faithful mirror.

These days we craft modern legends around such visionaries. Sensationalised perspectives, often presenting them as heroes or demigods. But reality is far darker and stranger than our fictions will usually allow. Such souls are often haunted. Not just by khemet ghosts, but by both trauma and tragedy. It can be a lonely life, so I'm told. But also one of wonder and incomparable mystery. Water from the rock, as I said. Of Peter or Paul. Simon's bright shadow falling upon the sick, and making them whole. Dear ones, do not fear the Fallen. Their throne is an abomination – and a lie. There is so much they still don't understand. We are wonders. All of us. Children of river and rain, stillness and storm. I myself am only an angel, a father of the lowlands. But my daughter has three faces. She is fate, and the sea. The clearest sea. Just know that I mean every word of this, and that I bid you love and wisdom on this day, my shining solstice miracle.