I shall and will know thee, Unknown One,
Who searchest out the depths of my soul,
And blowest through my life like a storm,
Ungraspable, and yet my kinsman!
I shall and will know thee, and serve thee.
Mistral wind, chaser of clouds,
Killer of gloom, sweeper of the skies,
Raging storm-wind, how I love thee!
Are we both not the first-fruits
Of the same womb, forever predestined
To the same fate?
Stretched out, shuddering,
Like a half-dead thing whose feet are warmed,
Shaken by unknown fevers,
Shivering with piercing icy frost arrows,
Hunted by thee, O thought,
Unutterable! Veiled! horrible one!
Thou huntsman behind the clouds.
Struck down by thy lightning bolt,
Thou mocking eye that stares at me from the dark!
Thus I lie,
Writhing, twisting, tormented
With all eternal tortures,
By thee, cruel huntsman,
Nietzsche wrote “To the Unknown God” in the 1860s, and “The Mistral Song” and “Ariadne’s Lament” in the 1880s. They are powerful words and have always felt like parts of a whole to me. Merged as one, I read them, like a kenning.
They resonate with me now.
Outside my window, all I see is madness on both sides of the political spectrum and I fear that our shared delusion is crumbling. Our society is built on lies, on false currency and the illusion of wealth. What will we do if all that is swept away?
I’m not calling on everyone to dig fall-out shelters, to stockpile canned goods, guns, and ammo. Or maybe I am?
Outside my window, I see the dream turning into a nightmare. I see the right and left clawing at our fragile reality like frightened and petulant children. Neither realize that the real world out there is a hungry beast. It has no use for gold or paper. No, the real world values food, water, shelter and nothing more.
When the right and left tear it all down, the weight of reality will crush them and the Unknown God with his grim visage will look upon us without pity or remorse for this is the world we’ve made for ourselves.
Maybe then we’ll understand, but too late. Always too late.
For us, there is no spring. Just the wind that smells fresh before the storm.