When the thin branches are piled over the grass in a
ｃｏｌｄ ｗｉｎｔｅｒ ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ and soon the flame starts to make the
cold //retreat//, there is something else that announces .itself.
there. An ancient *mystery*, as the cosiness of a 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.
There is a shelter in %adversity, and immense joy sprouts
from the simple things of existence. The sips of wine and the decrepit
winter's view snuggles and numbs the soul. It's the peak of introspection of
which just the 𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖞 𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖚𝖉𝖊 knows about. In the coordination of the
\\Outside// elements, a shelter opens itself and a comfy feeling
throws one to inside of himself.
is the great realm of things, which demands nothing of us, which
neither pursues us nor asks for sentimental reactions, which stands
us as a world to
itself, external and alien. This is
exactly what we need... this reality, always grand and distant, resting
in itself, beyond all the little joys
and the little
sorrows of man. A
world of objects, enclosed in itself, in which we ourselves feel like
an object. Completely detached from everything merely
every personal vanity and nullity:
this is what
nature is for us."
- Matzke, quoted
by Julius Evola in Ride the Tiger