Anger derived from sadness, and made into maddening power, bubbles through me like a wellspring. There is no happiness here, for the happy drive the evil insane.
I tell myself that if i surround myself with empty capitalist consumerism, that the shallowness will deepen, and the deep, abysmal depths will fill. But it is not so.
I turn to love, hoping that the great Cupid can solve my plight.
But where can love find room in a stone heart? For love is not a dandelion, though we may wish it could be, growing in the cracks of misfortune.
Nay, love is a rose, and it must be tended, lest it wither and fade. The madness continues, and i drive myself deeper into the depths, trying to numb out the sorrow in any way i can.
My mind has dragged me through its darkest depths, and so now, i turn to written word for solace.
What Magick can cure an angel’s heart, blackened by sorrow and neglect? What polishing varnish is there for a gold block that must not be allowed to be chipped at?
Alchemists of old sought to turn lead to gold, and so i have succeeded in the reverse.
Still there is an undeniable shine under the lackluster surface, a glinting of a thousand moons ago, when the gold was yet shiny and new.
Walls are useless against the mind, and its deafening silence, seeking to fill itself with ever worthlesss meaning.
Death seems an option, almost a quaint partner, though the Grim Reaper himself will not have me.
And so i throw myself into sorrow and neglect, feeling that i am alone, or if i am not alone, the snakes in the grasses that grow so high, seek to steal my treasure of a heart,
and make it their own. Self destruction seems easier than the silence, for a tree makes no noise as it grows, but a lumberjack is a hearty fellow.
He shall surely fell the forest, and relieve the dull ache, but with what a terrible ax!
My sole companion in my misery is a Hound of Baskerville, whos happiness and energy are almost enough to drive me out of myself. But the animal yet fails.
Deeper and deeper i sink, into what i already know, but choose not to acknowledge. The decay threatens to consume me, and i struggle for air against a tide that seems insurmountable.
For it is a dark place in which i find myself, where the evil and wicked come to rest their treacherous heads for the night,
and these wolves despise any among their number who is not bound to their plumes of rancid addiction.
Is there hope yet? Perhaps. Or perhaps i drive myself toward a fate i know to be inevitable, growing closer and closer by the day.
The edges of the night sink into my vision, and i know what comes next. The Grim Reaper has passed me up a few times, taking tea with me, but leaving me unaccosted.
How long till he knocks on my door for the last time? Always i wonder of his presence, sniffing about me like a dog in heat. His maw must drool, but he is patient.
For what oppurtune moment i know not, for he has had a rather fair picking. As i have climbed the heights of aesthetic, I have found that it is impossible to deny who i am.
I am not a monster, nor a demon among legions, but a man. A man who walks with a slight limp, and bears many scars. Whose armour weighs on him, and whose sword grows heavier with each step.
The face of a thousand battles shines in my eyes, and I know not where the war shall end, though surely only in my death.
I have resigned myself to this fate, and whatever it shall be that comes next. The war is won by the vast number of relentless, not by any one man.
What war shall we fight, and on whose side? Who is the true Devils among us, and who bears the true Sainthood?
I think that we may have a burdensome idea, imposed through doctrine and rederick, of what a saint and a devil are.