VIII: Lust

Blessed be the Cathars, the Skoptzys, the Shakers. In this blind world they had at least some degree of vision. They saw one of the tethers binding them to damnation, and it lead from between their legs. By severing this fetid tumour, this cankerous umbilical cord, physically or spiritually, they knew a true release those who could not bring the knife down never experienced.

On this level does the carmine tempest rage, the lustful and carnal thrown in endless cycle within the hurricane. Some cast around in vain for their lost loves, others to remember in sorrow the pleasures that ultimately brought only more pain. For this is desire manifested; the passion, the fury, the endless questing for mirages. Romance is sold to us on supermarket shelves, on cinema screens, in books, by ourselves and each other. Proffered as the ideal state, a whole merging of two half-souled selves, instead it becomes the strained yoking of two mules pulling in opposite directions, bearable at best, horrendous at worst. Rarely, if ever do two people fit into one space with any degree of comfort. And the external and internal forces that mold, that warp, that break us only make this imposition more Sisyphusean. And thus our fusions shatter, leaving our diminished, seperated halves to go away bitter, mournful and most unfortunately, hopeful. And after all, love is mostly just the dignification we afford our lust.

Lust. Wretched, malformed, vile lust. The battleground where men prove themselves beasts and women prove themselves perfidious. Where the rapine and depraved hold court. Where all prostitute their souls for an iota of false comfort. Where our twisted shadow selves make their play with the flesh of newly trapped victims. As surely as love must twist to hate, so does copulation become indistinguishable from violation. So many infinite variations of methods to steal dignity, steal spirit, exercise dominion, revel in sadistic pleasure. So many ways to learn more thoroughly the art of debasement. And through this we sow our seeds, to shape the rapespawn that shall be as hellbound and daemonic as we are. This would not exist in a good world. We are not good. And so it goes.

Away we must go now. Time to see a dog about some men.

VII: Limbo

Wish I'd started with this one and stayed true to the numbering. Oh well.

In my mind's eye, I see the river Acheron wend it's way twixt Hades and the overworld. Throngs of ashen, sullen shades trudged bowed towards vast black gates. Beyond, the vale of sorrow, the lightless void, where hope and goodness never tread. Onwards we march, nevermore to see the light of Paradise, into perdition's waiting arms. Into Hell.

But I am not dead. Nor are my travelling companions. Not outwardly, at least.

Subjectively, it no longer matters what the world truly is. Even as I type this, I feel the colours draining out of my vision and my soul, leaving me with mere monochrome, with the occasional splashes of crimson and jade, and the hint of an unknown and malevolent hue. The spirited activity of living, from my dimly lit window, look like the aimless shambling of penned cattle, chewing cud and waiting for the slaughterer's bolt. Some can take in the sun's warmth, look upon their world and know that it is good. Others, like me, can only hear the sound of the hourglass, the shallow pain of the knife pressed against one's back. I may have a pulse, a steady breathing rate, and verifiable neural activity, but I realise that I am not one of the living. Existence denies me, and what it doesn't I deny myself.

Stranded on the shores of Acheron. No way back. Only forward. Into Hell.