The Insight Academy

 

I’ve always had a strange romance with academia. In my early twenties I gave serious consideration to the idea of becoming a teacher. More specifically, I wanted to eventually teach at university. I very nearly took that path, but I had the vague sense that it wouldn’t really fulfil me in the way I wanted. I always had a love-hate relationship with that world. To this day I love stories about teachers. I love the settings, the aesthetic, and the content. So, there’s definitely an amateur academic somewhere within me. But I also hated the idea of being bound by someone else’s second or third-hand conventions. I hated the hypocrisy and elitism I sometimes noticed in those establishments.

I understand this combination of attraction and annoyance a little better now. At university, my teachers often told me I had both the passion and discipline to earn my PhD and eventually even become a college professor, but it wasn’t to be. I have this constant tension in me between freedom and formality. On the one hand I think of myself as having a somewhat bohemian spirit, but on the other I love literature, colleges, and the general rigors of education. But now I realise it’s the processes of creativity and communication that truly enchant me. That’s where my romance really dwells. Both creativity and communication can come in many forms outside the lecture hall. Realising this was incredibly liberating.

Until this recognition, there was a part of me that always felt like I’d sold myself short by not earning that PhD. Like I’d failed the romantic in me by not becoming the teacher that I thought I always wanted to be. Thankfully, this feeling has dissipated in the last several years. I don’t have to sacrifice my love of literature, scholarship, or communication. I can pursue those interests in my own way. I can choose to look forward instead of backward. I don’t need an academic setting or a doctorate to enjoy the process of sharing art and knowledge. I just need imagination, a bit of skill and a lot of patience. It’s so rewarding to feel that for the first time in my adult life I’m exactly where I want to be. I haven’t sacrificed anything essential. I’m proud of my choices, my creativity, and my personal relationships.

I’m far more mindful these days, and a big part of that mindfulness comes from cultivating self-knowledge. Knowing who you are, and why. This is the kind of education that can’t be bought, but it’s priceless. My romance with writers, literature and academia in general doesn’t have to end because I didn’t become a teacher. It can evolve, finding new avenues of expression. I love the process of cultivating and communicating insight. Sharing it with those who might benefit. It’s fun, and deeply engaging. I feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to when I can share these things in any form. Especially on this blog. An informal insight academy, you could say. So, it’s in that spirit of insight that I want to share another video from The Oldest Magic series. I’ve really enjoyed making these new videos. It’s been a very illuminating experience for me. My last discussion was very personal and quite difficult to talk about. But in this video I wanted to explore something more joyful and upbeat. Mindfulness, romance in general, and all the ways they can enrich our lives. I hope it resonates with you, my friends.

Wishing you all the best, and with love,

Raj

Myths at Midnight

 

It’s strange. I came up with the idea for this blog in the winter of 2010, but I never really put that idea into practice until March of the following year. Initially, I envisioned it as a kind of online art journal. A place where I could post my early experiments with video collage, essays I’d written at university that I thought might be interesting to a wider audience, and insights about art, history and current events. It seemed almost incidental at the time. An afterthought. Not really something that would be an integral part of my artistic life. However, Amid Night Suns quickly grew beyond that initial premise and became one of my most important avenues for self-expression and psychological health.

I quickly came to realise that the various forms of creativity posted to the blog didn’t have to be perfect. They just had to be thoroughly authentic. To myself as a person, to the things occurring in my inner life, and to my outlook on the world in general. I think I’ve managed to honour that requirement as my skills and modes of expression have evolved in the past fourteen years. It’s kind of crazy to think about because the blog is even more meaningful to me now than it was back then. It’s really been a touchstone for me. A useful platform for contemplation and self-reflection. Even though I deleted much of the blog’s earliest content during one of my lowest points, I didn’t remove any of my video-collage work from my YouTube or Vimeo channels. You can still find that work today, if you’re interested. Hundreds of little pieces of art, of varying quality. So, be kind. I’m still learning!

I also reposted many of the blog’s key deleted pieces, restoring much if not all the work I’d invested so much time and energy into. I’m glad I did that because I was never ashamed of my creative process, my earliest work, or the mistakes I’d made trying to hone my craft. I was just in a very dark place and became disillusioned with the exhausting journey of self-discovery, not the work itself. I quickly came to my senses though and realized I shouldn’t abandon Amid Night Suns. It was created with good intentions and had served me well up until that point. If depression and melancholy were the symptoms of a spiritual malaise, then art and creativity were the cure. That and firm, loving friendships. By the sheer grace of God I have all these things in my life now.

This is all to say I’m supremely grateful that I was inspired to create a platform where I could express my interests and explore my depths without fear of judgment or censorship. Obviously, I’m aware that my work isn’t for everyone. Many people might find the things I post here too dark, too oblique or self-indulgent, and that’s ok. Like I said, I initially envisioned this blog as a kind of online art journal where I could establish a dialogue with myself. More specifically, a dialogue between the conscious and subconscious aspects of my mind. Amid Night Suns is largely a journey through the various depths of one individual’s imagination. The utility of that journey is yours to decide, my friends.

I just want you guys to know that I’m not trying to trick anyone here, or appear smarter than I am. I have no interest in maintaining a mystique, or some ephemeral allure that comes with distance and inscrutability. I don’t give a shit about any of that. I don’t mind if these recent videos humanise me in some way, or even highlight my vulnerabilities. In fact, I’d prefer it. Artistic ego and delusions of grandeur are not why I post the collages or the esoteric free verse pieces on this blog. I do it to change my normal register of discourse, to better establish a connection with my subconscious mind. In a way, it’s a method of ever so slightly altering my consciousness without the use of drugs. I sometimes use meditation and breathwork to assist me in entering that more symbolic realm of mythopoetic imagination.

Artists and thinkers have often engaged in similar pursuits. Most famously the psychologist Carl Jung delved into the depths of his own consciousness and documented the entire creative process in what has become known today as The Red Book: Liber Novus, first published in 2009. Many critics view this process of Jung’s as a kind of creative illness. Perhaps even a form of madness. To me this seems an overly grim assessment of what is just an expression of the fundamentals of creativity, storytelling and narrative in action. Poetic association playing out in real time, through the lens of one person’s imagination.

So, I see my own work as a plethora of stories, video-collages and free verse poetry pieces that all exist in the same ‘world’ - within a kind of interconnected personal cinematic universe. Or multiverse, if you prefer. The Midnight Multiverse (patent pending). But in all seriousness, this process of mythopoetic imagination has been a very deliberate and illuminating experience for me. I’ve gained so much insight and joy from my artistic endeavours here at Amid Night Suns. And I hope they have uplifted, entertained or resonated with you in some way.  I’m a big believer in the idea that, even if we create something like an online art journal primarily to express ourselves, art is most potent and useful when it’s shared in a spirit of genuine friendship and service. That’s what I’ve been trying to do here for the last fourteen years. To connect and help people in some way though my own little bits and pieces of self-expression. The art of others has got me through some very difficult times, and my life is all the richer for it. I hope my own modest efforts can do the same thing for you, my friends.

Wishing you all the best, and with love,

Raj     

The Inward Eye

 

In this video I wanted to use my affinity for the night-time as an opportunity to discuss more personal and esoteric matters. I’ve really enjoyed making these videos for The Oldest Magic series, but I felt called to speak about something deeper, and that’s the process of contemplation. I guess changing the way I post content on this blog has affected me far quicker than I thought it would. My intuition tells me that’s a good thing, especially if what I post helps someone out there in some way. Even if it’s just a single soul who really needs to hear these particular words, or simply needs to resonate with my kind of energy.

I’ll be the first to admit the idea of filming myself talking to camera was quite unsettling to begin with. Just the idea of putting myself out there like that unnerved me a little, but now I get the sense that I’m doing what I’m supposed to in terms of a wider range of creativity. So, I’ll trust that intuition. In this video you might hear me refer to another video that I filmed but never published to YouTube. It’s just me trying to get better at and more comfortable with this style of self-expression, so please bear with me.

But yeah, this is the most intimate and personal I’ve ever been on Amid Night Suns, and I truly hope the video is taken in the spirit of affection and friendship with which it’s intended. More than that, I hope my words bring comfort or insight to those who need it. If you’ve ever been through similarly dark times, as discussed in this video, I want you to know that you’re not alone. Things can get better. So much better, and brighter. They did for me, and for the longest time I didn’t think that was possible. But anything is possible with a little guidance, inspiration, and contemplation.

Wishing you all the best, my friends, and with love,

Raj.

Crowns of Kindness

                                              

Namaste, my friends! I hope you’re keeping well. In my last video for The Oldest Magic I discussed a favourite movie of mine: 2019’s The Aeronauts. I really enjoyed making that video, talking about the finer details of a story that moved me so much. So, I think I’m going to do more of those kinds of reviews and deep dives. Movies, books and albums that really matter to me, or changed me in some way. I’m quite excited by the prospect. I feel like I’ve taken a lot of pressure off my shoulders by loosening up a bit and broadening the scope of what I post here at Amid Night Suns. It’s not like I intentionally stopped myself from posting varied content, but you get used to doing things a certain way and before you know it you’ve kind of put yourself in a creative Cul-de-sac.

Well, I want to break away from those limiting patterns. I’ve put a lot of work and energy into the poetry and video-collages I’ve posted on this blog over the years. I’ve made hundreds of them between my YouTube and Vimeo accounts. I’m proud of my dedication to my craft, I suppose, but I’m feeling brighter and more expansive these days. I hope the next few months on the blog reflect that. Now that we’re transitioning into Autumn – my favourite season of the year – I want to feel completely free to post more fun things as we get closer to year’s end. I know Amid Night Suns doesn’t have many followers, but if you’re among the handful of people who do follow this blog with any genuine interest or regularity, then I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

All artists crave an audience, even amateurs like me. When you go to the effort of creating something with real care, it can be quite crushing to feel like nobody is paying attention. It can kill the creative spark, extinguishing even the basic desire for self-expression. So, I’m truly grateful for the audience I do have, even though I have no idea who many of you are. I thank you nonetheless, and I wish you nothing but joy and positivity in your lives. This latest video in The Oldest Magic series is another movie analysis. This time it’s a discussion of the themes of royalty and uniqueness in the 1995 film adaptation of Francis Hodgson Burnett’s novel A Little Princess. It’s a film that moved me a great deal as a teenager, and it’s one I love to revisit and study as an adult. I hope the video piques your interest and kindles your heart in some way. Wishing you all the best, and with love, Raj.    

The Heretic's River

 

These feathers unfurl, a lifetime of dreaming at my back. Yet time still escapes me like summer sands as Yarden waters burn these palms. Drowning, and on fire, in an act of almost-flight. Flames like molten rock beneath the wave. The path of Antioch’s angels, I suppose. Criminals, cowards and so-called revolutionaries, spilling the blood of our brother’s sons to enshrine the shared lie of our fathers. My God, what a mess. Pickled peppers and pecks on the cheek. Heretic letters and paths of the meek. But kisses counted for little in Palestine. And still, detonations are supposedly mistaken for the Finger of God. Like magnesium cast onto the fire. Mere anarchy, appallingly loosed. The blood-dimmed tide, as Isaac and Ishmael continue to slaughter each other daily. And for what, for legends of land and promise? It broke me, even back then. It broke my daughter too. Utterly. Named for Eos, but defiled with spilled scarlet. Midnight of the Day. You think these words are fiction, don’t you, Fallen? Do you imagine the deaths of all those brown children as somehow equally unreal? Less meaningful? Now that the dawn is bright as snow do you care a little more? You didn’t back then. The hue of flesh is only skin deep. No child deserves to die because of the beliefs of their mothers and fathers, regardless of their genealogy. The best of us, irrespective of faith, caste or creed haven’t butchered our empathy so completely. Nor our humanity, especially where our children are concerned. Do you really need a fucking angel to tell you this?

Dear ones, I want you to know that these fists burned as they were plunged in ancient river water. A secret sooth, told quietly. Men are ruined rain. Mud is flesh and blood is the river. Didn’t you know? Sentient sea, all of us, animated by starlight. We drink the river’s reign or die, extracting salt for protection. A circle against those wraiths who despise all sailors. Hydrogen and oxygen. Time and space. But we are the mineral. We are the salt. The allowed reach of those wraiths. So, we unknowingly slaughter ourselves as we continuously fill our waters with death and filth. As once-bright feathers unfurl. Or is that a truth too flagrant to imbibe? I’ve been called a winged wolf in the interim, and it’s a fitting title. More fitting than you know. I’ve also been called a sorcerer, and a charlatan. A scribe to the Levant’s wending shriek. A giant among men. Like those legends of Offerus, Yohanan, and Saul. The tales we tell and re-tell. But I don’t just cross these rivers, dear ones. I bend them with my Father’s will. Mountains also, cut down with the palm of his hand. My maker’s hands are burned by Yarden’s ebb, and my daughter’s also. Not just my own. We share the anguish. I’m an angel, you see. An emissary. To claim myself as anything greater would be a lie. Still, I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t a force to be reckoned with. I am. Perhaps it’s pride talking, like the night’s first falling star. But, unlike that star, I have love in my heart. I never imagined myself as greater than my maker. My sins are many, but they are all too human. Driven by sheer grief. I would never dare to claim the throne, unlike the legends tell of Samael. The indulgence. The vanity. God forbid Mikael is ever confused for his winged sibling. But we are all both these brothers in theme. Heaven’s War raging within. Don’t you recognise this yet, Fallen? Or is your grasp of stories and psyche so feeble?

I’ve spent a thousand years honing my craft. Trying to learn kindness and patience. I’m still here in the dark with you, my friends. Still learning. Jack of all trades and master of none. Stumbling around for light and coherence. As we forgetful souls all do. Whilst my outcast brother keeps his memories and builds an empire of bones, violence and human shit from our darkest imaginings. The spoils of war, clad in the garb of officialdom and religiosity. False righteousness. We all know this, in our hearts. But the world does not stop for any of us, despite our rage. It’s incredibly sobering to realize that your anguish and loss is no greater than anyone’s. Pain is horrifyingly relative. We have no right to bomb and burn creation’s dreaming, shifting times and laws. Take it from a veteran of the vortex. A true traveller must move delicately, and with the utmost care. Yes, our loved ones can be taken from us in the most vicious way possible, but we are not the only ones who suffered such loss. The cosmos is vast. Infinite stars. Unimaginable worlds. Tragedy has visited so many of them. But joy too. Unimaginable joy, and grace. We know so little of our maker’s divine poetry, except when we dare to dream. Enjoy the warm embrace of love’s radiance, my friends. But recognise that the sweet sunlight we enjoy is not enjoyed by all, even in our own world. There are so many pockets of darkness and suffering where children wail and parents grieve in that brief period before the next detonation, and spirit’s connection to flesh is severed once more by mankind’s most hateful aspects. Palestine and elsewhere. Dark priests and wraith-ravage, enshrined. I’m not just a witness to this awful chaos. I am a writer. A depth-walker of the inner places. My insights change nothing, of course. But nonetheless, when I see our children and our brother’s children offered up as dark sacrifice – I as one of the Magi must speak. This is a fucking abomination. A hideous shame that stains our souls. It was so two thousand years ago, and it is still so today.

Friendship & Flight

 

At first, I was kind of hesitant about making videos where I put myself out there, without any persona or shield between me and my art, but it’s actually been really fun. And way more liberating than I expected. Initially I thought it was so far outside my comfort zone that I debated whether I should even give it a try. I’m very comfortable making atmospheric video-collages and writing free verse poetry with mythological themes, but less so talking directly to a camera as myself. But I’ve come to realise that I don’t need to worry so much. The things I make are never going to be perfect, nor do they need to be.

All I really want is to find new and interesting ways to express myself, to satisfy that creative impulse and have fun doing it. I guess trying new things is healthy sometimes, and surprisingly rewarding. It triggers growth, gratitude, and enjoyment of the present moment. We all get this intellectually, I suppose, but we don’t feel it emotionally nearly as often as we should. So yeah, I’m making these videos on my new YouTube channel mostly for myself. Also for the handful of people who might be paying attention and who hopefully find them interesting in some way.

I’m someone who believes deeply in art, creativity and self-care, but I’ve spent a lot of time holding my tongue and just keeping my thoughts to myself. I guess I’ve decided to change all that. I’m not nearly as existential as I used to be. I kind of roll with the punches and go with the flow these days, and I’ve got to say – it’s incredibly freeing! Hopefully you can sense my delight in these videos as I get more comfortable talking in front of a camera. I just want to post more stuff and talk about things that genuinely fascinate me. Things that move my heart. That includes art, philosophy and religion. But also down-to-earth stuff like books that I enjoy, movies I love, and albums that have had a big impact on me.

These coming posts over on The Oldest Magic and here at Amid Night Suns – they might not change the world or anything, but I just want to share the real me a bit more with those who might be interested. I don’t want to come across as some distant mythological entity, a wannabe auteur with illusions of grandeur and no sense of humour. I’m just a guy who loves history, art, and stories. I really don’t take myself too seriously in my personal life. Like I said before, I’ll be cross-posting most of these front-facing videos here, so there’s no need to worry about subscribing. I’ll still post my usual video-collages and more esoteric written pieces, of course, but the scope of my real interests is far broader, and I want the blog to reflect that.

Hopefully this new chapter of Amid Night Suns will be engaging and resonant for you in some way. It’s definitely been liberating and fun for me! So, in that spirit, here’s a video that’s basically a review of a favourite movie of mine: 2019’s The Aeronauts. It’s a film that didn’t make much of an impact commercially, but it moved me a great deal. I still enjoy rewatching it. In the video I discuss some of its deeper themes, and I explore storytelling more generally. Warning: there are major spoilers for the story though, so proceed with caution if you haven’t seen it yet but intend to! Wishing you all the best, and with love, Raj.  

Neverland

 

Sometimes, my darling, things hide in the light. Beautiful things. Fairies, secrets, and kisses. Most people don’t see them, of course. Or notice the signs. But I hope you do. Even if people occasionally do sense something – the possibility of magic – they usually disregard it as coincidence. Or imagination. In doing so, they pass by all kinds of enchantment. Wonders all around them. I hope you choose to see with better eyes than that, Kara. I’m not asking you to believe any version of any story, because my mind is bursting with literature and legend. All I ask is that you search your heart. That you read between the lines, noticing the kisses left in corners. Feel the depth and affection in those stories and savour the possibility. What if there’s more truth to them than anyone dares to believe? What if you’re special, Kara? More special than you could ever imagine? All girls are, really. But not all girls hold a lantern as high as you do. I thank you for that.

I want you to know that the presence of our Father moves with unimaginable grace through this world, mostly unseen. And unfelt. It can be a dark place indeed, but he does speak to those who are attuned. Those who care. Those who believe. I want to ask you a question, Kara, as your guardian. I know you believe in God, but do you still believe in fairies? Fluttering joy, winged awe, and the gentle tinkling of bells? I know you did once, when you were young. But do you still think it’s possible? I’m an artist and a storyteller, it’s true. But I’m also an angel, in a very real sense. I bring messages. I want to quicken and inspire all souls. Those kind and courageous ones, and those who have no voice. It’s my mission, my darling. It always has been. I’ve always been a guardian of light. So have you, and many of our friends too, though they don’t remember. I’ll remember on their behalf, sweetheart. And yours.

Tell your friends I’m grateful for their help. I need all the help I can get in this War of Imagination. This War for All Souls. I’m not as cruel or as selfish as the books suggest. If anything, I care too much, and it almost got me killed. But I survived, because of you. I thrive because your melodies restore my feathers each night, and lift me to the stars. I would love to be there with you, to celebrate the ascension of your art and song, but I have other pressing concerns. Responsibilities, and battles. Just know that I might not be near in terms of time or space, but I’m always with you. I’ll always be with you, for as long as you want or need me. The love that people share determines their closeness in the end. I know that to be true. So, though I may not be in the room, I stand side by side with a beloved friend and a cherished artist. I’m so proud of you. I keep your kiss, Kara. It is one of my most treasured possessions, and it shall never leave my heart. 

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.

Secrets & Souls

 

As children we’ve all imagined what it might be like to fly. Even as adults we occasionally still imagine. To soar above our doubts and fears, beyond everything mankind knows about its existence on the ground. I believe that stories can give us that flight. Or, at least, the closest thing to it. Stories, like dreams, are wonderful and limitless. We never have to concede to everyday mundanities. Through storytelling we are all adventurers. Explorers, poets and engineers. We can breach dimensional veils and walk across alien worlds. It’s my belief that our fondness for narrative is also our way of reaching for God. Trying to comprehend those brief glimpses of something far larger than ourselves. An infinite, living mystery. And we’ve all had glimpses. We were all magicians once, when we were young. We travelled with and through the stories we loved. We believed, that given enough imagination, we could grasp something awe-inspiring, just beyond visible sight.  Sometimes we even dared to imagine that if we were humble enough, and pure of heart, that same awe might make itself visible to us. For the briefest of moments. In the bright smile of a loved one. The kindness of a stranger, or the joy of an unexpected gift. I like to think that in those moments our Father is not only visible, but sitting with us too – and wishing us well. 

The Oldest Magic

 

For as long as I can remember I've been fascinated with creativity, storytelling and magic. As a child I found myself delighted by tales of wizards and sorcerers. But more than that, I was magnetically drawn to the memoirs and biographies of writers and artists. I came to understand that I found a lot of commonalities between the notions of art and magic. Both involve using signs and symbols to influence reality in subtle ways. Most people see no link whatsoever between these practices, but for me these hidden connections were of primary significance. They seeded an interest in me as a child that would eventually change the course of my entire life. However, this fascination didn't simply arise from nowhere. It was a response to the strange experiences I had as a child. I was always gifted to some degree, possessing what many have called 'second sight'. A measure of psychic and clairsentient ability. Of course, I don't expect anyone to believe what I'm saying here without evidence or proof. I'm not writing this to convince anyone of anything. But it is the truth. In many ways my childhood was bizarre and kind of frightening, but there were also moments filled with incredible wonder and beauty. By the time I was eleven years old I was convinced of the reality of the spiritual realms. I'd experienced it first-hand, for better and worse. These experiences shaped me into the man and artist I am today. Amid Night Suns is largely a response to my fascination with and experience of spirituality, and its connection to human dreaming. In many ways we build the world through our understanding of it. We shape it in our image, and as we change so does the world. This act of co-creation has been a lifelong subject of inquiry, and I still don't fully understand it.  But, while I'm still learning about these more numinous, hidden relationships, I do believe that I have experiences and insights worth sharing. That's why I've created a new YouTube channel called The Oldest Magic where I intend to discuss these topics further. The more esoteric aspects of art and storytelling, and their connections to religion, spirituality and dreams. If you enjoy what I do here at Amid Night Suns and would find more personal, in-depth discussions interesting then I encourage you to check out my new channel. Either way, I'll be cross-posting many of those videos here too. Thank you for your interest and engagement over the years, my friends. It means the world to me. It really does. I want nothing more than to help people. So, if I can continue to inspire or quicken the spirit of even a single soul through my discussions, poetry or video collages, then I'll consider it an extremely good use of my time and energy. Wishing you all the best, and with love, Raj.

New Horizons

 

It can be a frightening thing, trying something new. Attempting to manifest something from nothing. But also, fear isn't too far from excitement when you think about it. Both emotions involve the unknown. Regions hitherto unexplored. And exploration can be thrilling as well as terrifying. It's just a matter of outlook in the end, and a willingness to take those initial steps. I've always been interested in the subject of manifestation and personal growth. How we can create more depth in our lives. How we can add richness and texture to both our inner and outer worlds. That's a big part of why I started this blog in the first place. For the joy of exploration and creativity. Amid Night Suns has been both a touchstone and a lifeline for me as a writer and artist. Here I can immerse myself in video collage, poetry and spiritual contemplation. And hopefully others might find value in it too. But still, it's a solitary experience. I want to continue pushing my boundaries if I can, expanding my comfort zone. I've never been one to crave novelty just for novelty's sake, but I do see the value in growth. In trying new things, even if you have initial reservations. I'm quite a private person in my real life. I have a small circle of friends and loved ones, and I cherish them with all my heart. But, despite this more reserved side of me, I also have a very gregarious, communicative aspect too. A part of me that is always trying to learn and become more than I currently am. In that spirit, I want to discuss how we might manifest more of our genuine selves into the tasks we pursue and the things we enjoy. I'm not really interested in manifestation in terms of pure acquisition. A way to acquire more things. No, I'm more interested in how we can use an idea like manifestation to explore our own depths and come to know ourselves better. It's something new for me, but also something exciting. And, if you like what I do here at Amid Night Suns, I hope you'll enjoy exploring this new horizon with me.

Song for Kara

What makes the soul of a song, from a musician’s unique perspective? Is it more than melody, harmony and rhythm? More than just verse, bridge or refrain? I would imagine so, but I can’t really answer that question. Not like you can, Kara. Though I’m an angel of songs I am not a musician. At least, not like you are. As a writer I can sense and shape the musicality of language to some degree. But I cannot craft the jewels that you do. Resonant, imaginative, lit from within. Each song a lantern on the crest of a rising reign. Truly, my love, I find your lyricism and artistry profoundly beautiful. Your songs have been with me for many years now, through shadowed times and light. They saved me in more ways than one. You know this already, but I hope you dare to believe it. The lasting impact you’ve had on me. And many others, I’m sure. That’s the thing about creativity. Art in general and music specifically – it speaks directly to the soul. It soothes, challenges and delights. At its best it kindles hope, and a sense of play. I hope I can offer you that same joy with these modest efforts. I admire your integrity, Kara, and respect your sovereignty. I hope you can sense it through my words and my actions. I want nothing more than to keep you close in my heart, yet I never wish to intrude in your life in any brash or thoughtless way. You mean far too much to me. Your music, insight and outlook. So, though I can’t write like you can, or craft melodies in the same way, consider these words a song of sorts. A song written just for you. I love you, Kara. Not to claim, or to own, but to quicken and uplift. In all the ways you did for me when I was at my lowest. The fact that you exist brings me great joy. Not some writer’s distant idealised version of you. Just you, complex and real. Like me. You knew me once, my songstress. In another life long ago. I know that’s hard to believe, but the world is full of magic and secrets. I know this better than most. I pray that your heart still feels me in some strange way. Someone you loved once, and almost remember like a figure from a fading dream. We wandered beside rivers. Among flowers. You even sweetly teased my optimism as I struggled to play, but your eyes were full of warmth and cherish. My fingers could never dance the strings the way yours did. Still more poet than performer, I suppose, even here in this mortal flesh. More than anything I want to believe that a songline still connects us, Kara. I dream for us both with a relaxed, quiet devotion. I hope we get to see each other again. It will be a moment I shall treasure. Until then, just know that I wish you a beautiful future, my darling, filled with songs that shine bright as lanterns.