Raise High Thy Banner of Strife

Who is this pacifist I hear the baying crowds clangorously hail like some ostentatious and foppish sage of yore? For a certainty, whatever it is it’s not a man. A man worthy of the word would never be so spineless and stupid as to adopt such a patently immoral ideology. When struck, the pacifist says, “Turn thy other cheek,” – how very Christian, but a codeword for those that throw their hands up, first in entreaty and shortly thereafter in fatalistic acquiescence! “The meek shall inherit the earth,” he says, smiling like a simpleton, inhaling the seething scents of the local bakery, drooling out upon the floor with not the wit to observe the merest semblance of social decorum!

My reply? “The meek shall inherit nothing.”

How extreme is the outcry to such a simple statement of fact, how extraordinary it is that the merest acknowledgement of reality can produce such superfluous outrage! To understand this most popular response one must understand the aspirations of the populace of our time – of a certainty, no easy task! So what is it that the common man aims to be? What forms does his stultified and sheltered mind seek to emulate? That of a lion or that of a lamb? The answer is neither. The chaos ridden energies of the proletariat take the form, not of the master nor of the slave, but rather of the jailbird, the refuge. The ethos of their world is one of total and all eclipsing escapism.

Why fight when you can run away? Why even run away when you can simply lock yourself behind a door. In so doing such men need not be corralled, for they corral themselves! Near superfluous becomes the truncheon wielding black armored enforcer, his keys and chains and cuffs and bars all nothing more than window-dressing, for such men seek nothing higher than their own incarceration – their escapism the key with which they lock the cage of their own construction. It’s the endless giving away of ground until there is scarcely any left to stand on! In time, such gestures leave only a swelling void, bottomless and cold, it’s vascular walls slick as blood. It is one which breeds the man who in all seriousness looks his fellows dead-eyed and says, “No of course I wouldn’t kill someone if they broke into my house! I’d just call the cops.”


The solution is not to run nor hide but to throw one’s self upon the pike and weather the searing pain! For us in the West, ours is the age of stagnate docility, a disease brought on by security and the hedonistic ostentation of affluence! Cast it off like the fetid yolk it is! Cast it off and straight unto the pyre – an effigy to be burned, it’s scents inhaled with our warlike fervor, the fire’s alcahest a signal and a call. A precedent.

Thus, seek out conflict, that foremost affirmation of will, a will to live and do so actively, a drive to continuance, a stirring pathos of genealogy and motion, caring for you when you yourself do not! Celebrate war, temporal and otherwise. For in it’s noble execution the hitherto purposeless are granted a venerable placing in the grand loom of history – no sorry thing, for all are creatures of their history and woe be unto those without one! So ignite your passions, you men of action, for you cannot be the latter without the former.

Raise high your banners and venerate strife!