Divided we stand in the sight of a frozen sun, salivating for the wine that would assuage our inner draught only to beset ourselves with the oozing bile of desert forests and pregnant voidness.
You are not empty who feels neither world nor fellow creature sentient, who neither sees the road nor heeds primal urge line-up. You are not undone who by strain and drunk melancholy spouses your pain into caves of clanship blindness.
Do not think, but feel again the wordless voice drowned in waves of taught heartache. You are a treasury of inconmensurable power waiting to be fertilised by rightful seed and rain-falling.
If you are unsatisfied, and thereby crawling through the sewers of hopelessness, I dare say you need just wait for the burning stellar blaze which with sweetness buzzes in every cell. On that day, my dear bud, you will have come closer to yourself than all those years of nescient judgement under unawareness and preconceived notions of life and the self.
And in parting words I say, “Value yourself!”; for there is no other like you, and it would be a shame to see you fade away locked up in the mutable illusions we have come to accept.
Every time I look outside myself, there is nothing. The night scowls — harsh shadows glare from every edgy corner and crevasse, bluntly isolating themselves from the parking lot’s cold light. My humming fills the air of this witching hour whilst my eyes imbibe from the hollow calmness. I roam awake in the sleeping field of humanity, now and again waltzing in the absurdity of my surroundings. These dreams are shards of irrationality. The loftiest reason springs from the cradle of darkness with the germinating seed of a bleeding ideal, so piercing that the reflection of life gives it form and functionality. I have brandished and slain all by which reality breathes in harmony with the blades of stark madness, and like a venomous snake spread the bane of immortality. The aethers gleam athirst for breath’s sublime counsel; for I thieved their wine from their lips, and fed them sand from the deserts of necromancy. Oh, but to feel the warmth of shapely concept and pattern! Oh, but to exit the abandoned cavern of primordiality! One would beseech of himself the zeal to power to traverse the labyrinthine darkness into deeper regions of blackness to gaze upon the light of Abyss, and transfigure consciousness to heights unimagined.
How many times have I rode the horse of delusion by the creed of self-righteousness, and my touch wound the souls of travelers! Yes, I had no heart; for I damned and devoured it. Its rebirth was imposed to unveil the tragedies when I drank from my own venom to comprehend the deathful art of deed and utterance.
Compassion showed its face in the tender observation of all around me.
To appreciate, to love without attachments with the immanent knowledge of my needs and desires: out of comprehension rather than prejudice.
My iron fist has been nothing other than the reflection of my own savagery.
Umbra: I know, and you know that should not be a surprise. Equip him to our needs, and send him back to me.
Monarch: You have a question for me; I can see it even when you avert your eyes from mine.
Umbra: The question is half the question; for it, in itself, is an answer. For long, I have tormented myself with the possible why’s: Why would you send me forth every breath upon this world? Why do you insist that the labour does persist? I know now that those questions have an answer, which was already bestowed unto me past the maelstrom of tears and lacerating spears which by measure of true nurture launched to spike Élan out of the entombed barren bosom of dead’s play yard. No, those questions were answered; albeit, for them, you had me bleed rivers of blue bile. The question is not that which I do not know, but that which I know and find most vomitous and abhorrent. The question is the skilful dancer of awe-striking silken laceful fire who grins and frolics with expeditious comportment, bearing amphorae of lugubrious water to sober the lawful drunken. The question is the recognition of barbarous endeavour upon strings harrowing out of tune. The question is not an interrogative, but a ceaselessly screaming hostage whose sensuous hunger starves at the banquet of tellurian betrothment; for, alas, you saved me and condemned me to wander and wonder. The question is rightfully what is it that I wilfully sacrifice upon the altar of illusion and phantom womb as I race evermore upon freedom’s path and open skies, maintaining the balance of all elements at once. The question is a heartful confession of deep-rooted hatred and disrelish, which, at times, finds the will to subside to let me enjoy the simple pleasures. You extended me from your being with all the unlocking keys one may fancy and require, yet entrusted me to open the ashen, pale, and tenuous archways with the growing seed of primordial hankering. For much, I am forever grateful; however, it would be foolish and neglectful to deny that the question irks and pains me with tenacious transpiercing and ancient venom. And although the freely gifted and surreptitiously taxed embrace of martyrdom repudiates me as I do it, fruition and gratification do I extract from waging the infernal war.