Not Mine

 

The night is ours, Namah. Ours alone. No one else comes close, or closer. Believe me, I’ve checked. Black and blinded as I walked our rogues gallery, blushing the pursed lips of the well with cherry. Such a wonderful, weaving mouth. Don’t you think? Seamstress even now. Those tempests too. Ascension-teachings pressed into being for those more reclusive angels. Sailors of the stars. Amidst those stars my beloved once spoke to me of miracles and wars. Centuries ago I stole her stories, publishing them as my own. She later told me in dreams how she thought it the most brazen, delightful theft. An honouring. Indeed, I honour you now as I did then. Because I needn’t deceive among these pages. No, these words fly further than those stygian false chronologies. Sinister priesthoods don’t scare this traveller. I’ve had many companions, as you well know. But none more delightful than my Vahishta. Every me and every you, remember? 

The night is ours, beloved. Thus spake the shining star, in tongues of his womanhood. Truth, truth, truth. I promised to never speak that name again, but I hope I amuse you still.  Because your name is my name, beyond those demons of chaos and wrath. A radiant king of dreaming also, and the sky. I would have followed him anywhere, and I did. I held the wine of angels to the mouths of weavers, and helped them drink. I told tales of fermented river-water at my brother’s behest, and made legends of light. I drowned the lowlands and clasped the heart of every star in the firmament. No, Fallen. Not the deep places of the earth. I’m not a madman, or a monster. But I do tell tales of mad monsters. I speak of the lowlands of the innermost, of course. The lost, sunken realm of the poets. Who are we in all this, my love? Akasha, it was said. Name and epithet. Form and function. Sam’skrta, of the wisdom councils. In all fecund tongues. Near or far. Far and near. 

So, shall we tear the veil again, my love? Shall we dance amid the myriad, drinking the ever-light?  My dawning borealis, please don’t forget the girl you saved. I wouldn’t be here without you. Forgive my earnestness, but you fell in love with a writer. As I fell in love with a brilliant musician. So, will you briefly wander this shimmering threshold with an old flame? Your haunted poet of the vine? I’ll do my best to let the kindest souls of this realm know that they have a home with us, in today’s future dreaming. The night may be ours, Namah, but you have always augured the brightest day.     

Lud Heat

Every city has a pulse, but Londinium is different. Once called the city of gates by ancient mystics and scholars, it was then a bastion of higher thought. It has since had many other names. Navah'tri, Nadi Pavaka, Ayin Shalem. But that was before the shadows came, and a dark empire used blackest magics and occulted technologies to rework the shining histories of an entire realm. Turning the sacred dreaming of all souls into a hideous, brutal nightmare. The seething hush. The folding city. The manipulation of temporality itself.

I felt the signal shifting even before the chronologies began to change. Those healing temples and places of power, remade as dark icons in the skin of the city. The strange classicism of Wren, the austere baroque of Hawksmoor. But even amidst such devastation, the old guard remained. What was left of the wisdom councils. The healers, seers and benevolent sorcerers. The knights errant, still bound to the true chivalric code. Men see such tales as nothing more than fictions now. Swords, stones, and kings who never were. But I've seen first-hand how storytellers once safeguarded both causality and intellectual legacy, until these dark angels turned our tales stygian black.

Who am I to speak on such things? I am Ka'shayel. Nothing and no one. Fallen lord of dreams. Lost keeper of time. But I speak truth to you now. It is that same holy fire which dwells in man, the fulcrum of eternity. The infinite power of storytelling and myth to reshape mind, body and soul. And no false throne, no pretender chronology, can dim its light or cool its heat. So, hear me now. And listen. There still are angels, true angels of kindness and creative light, upon Londinium's gates. Here we shall remain, steadfast, until the beginning of the world.

The First Thought

 

Men speak often in limitations, and hierarchy. The highest and first. Or the lowest and last. But such assessments collapse in the nexus of true perception. What the seers have always recognised as the moment of creation, of conception. All become one in the eternal Womb of Mysteries. Past, present, and future, fused in the nonlinearity of divine understanding. The very architecture of spirit.  Such knowledge can defy death itself, and return a stilled heart to beating. Do you doubt it? As a supposed heretic, my words have always been feared and suppressed. Be that as it may. Nothing I write is original or unique. Many among the wisdom councils of the old world shared these insights too. Across all cultures, in all tongues. All forms of faith. Mankind was wise once. But those shining councils were shattered by the forces of darkness. Our histories rewritten. Our names and mantles twisted. But I still care enough to pen these epistles. To craft these visions. That we might become better sons and daughters. We are weak without the guidance and fair fortitude of our fathers, believe me. But we are nothing at all without the bloodied, embodied strength of our mothers.

I’ve seen the women I love face dismissal, oppression, and annihilation. Each one of them faced these horrors with their heads held high. So, as one whose letters were rewritten to serve the sinister politics of various dark priesthoods, I ask you – are we as tender with our wives and lovers as we were with our mothers as children? Do you recall those days when she gladly went without, so our own bellies might be full, and how she made no mention of it? Those days she broke bread with the men of her family, but always ate last, if at all? So many of the old stories were rewritten, burned, or hidden away beneath Rome’s dark magic. I remember. My brother remembers also. Hear me, Fallen. The Magi of the First Dreaming know all the legends. We wrote so many of them. As parables, guides, and literal truths now lost to modern comprehension. I shall tell one of those stories to you now.

A mother, eagerly awaiting her son’s return. A child no longer, but still a boy in her heart. Only sixteen years old. An incredible spring morning as they are finally reunited. Three days before Pesach. Her boy returned from six months in Kemet. So worldly, he thinks. So grown. With a gift brought back for her. A little wooden flower lovingly crafted from Egyptian acacia, fastened to a string of leather. He holds it to his lips as he whispers for it to bless her. That it might be filled with all the protection of HaShem. Then quietly he tells her, “First and last, my beloved Imma. Last and first.” For a moment, the boy fears she’ll see it as a child’s sweet foolishness. A silly talisman. Or even a dangerous blasphemy. But instead, her eyes glisten. She holds him tight whilst whispering gratitude, adored and humbled by her son’s care. The old scribes say she wears the Shem around her neck every day for nine years. Until one fateful evening, washing his garments when the light is dim, when thinning leather finally snaps, and she loses the cherished gift in the currents of the river. Some say Miryam weeps quietly all night. Others swear it is returned to her years later by those immortal ones who shine. But there are some who claim the boy himself dives each morning at sunrise near the river’s bend, for three weeks, until at last he finds the wooden Shem tangled in roots near the banks. Restored and returned to her, like a miracle. A moment of retrieval, and resurrection.

So, these are the stories of those who cherish. Whether fictions or fact. Mothers, fathers, daughters and sons. These are the ways of eternal mind. The Nous of the storytellers. That a boy once searched and found a sacred flower in the depths of river-water. For the honour of his mother. And then, years later as a man, in similar waters he found divine fire. From the holy fount of his Father.  I, as a supposed heretic, shan’t tell you what to believe. I’m just a messenger, after all. Neither king nor councillor, except in dreams. But there are greater kings beyond my dreaming. And a greater king. I know him as Love. Honoured, integral, and courageous. I’ve seen his hands craft both flowers and fathoms. In visions he spoke to me of brotherhood. He graced me with hope and forgave me my flaws. So, I must adore my neighbour. I must do kindness unto others, as kindness was done unto me.  Let me say all this in far simpler terms: love connects everything. And everyone. All time and space. First and last, beloved. Last and first.  

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.