PART II- Dusk Of The Muse's Light
“SHUT UP!”
Myself who was now displaying a grimace exclaimed. I was startled beyond regaining my composure. I lay still on the warm wooden floor, to the left of the fire. As my mind raced searching for reason in the absurdity of an experience to hinge onto in an order to keep me from falling into a deeper insanity, I heard footsteps descending the squeaking stairs leading from the third floor. My god, it was Amelia and she had heard me! What was I to do? Was I even still in her house? Was I visible to her? Would I be caught in the midst of my actions? For I could not move, but there were not one, but two of me to hide. I would undoubtedly be seized in some form either by the authorities or by her manipulative coaxing for every detail of “why, why, why?”
This task had to go unbotched, for I could not afford this reprise to be anything less than masterful in essence. The footsteps stopped. It was quiet as I watched myself, unresponsive; sit, once again with a very satisfied smile upon my face. I heard one last squeak on what sounded to be the third, possibly the second to last step before standing on the very floor on which I lay. After ten, maybe fifteen seconds, she ascended the staircase and I heard her steps overhead walk across back to whatever pre occupation what detained her.
I looked one last time into my eyes as I heard Amelia’s voice; muffled by the floor between us, begin to hum those haunting notes. Within seconds it seemed, the eyes hypnotized me and the song from her mouth grew louder while the eyes grew larger, larger and brighter, beyond any hue of blue the father had given me. As the eyes grew in size and clarity, so did the melody until they meshed completely into one thing. It is hard to explain the realization of two senses, a sight and sound transfering into one feeling, but I proclaim, it evokes a most poignant emotion.
I lost gaze with these glowing eyes for the last time, I faltered in my stare due to the sensation of a gripping type of pressure on my right knee. I was anxious at the thought of what next twist this night might take, knowing that I was fully responsible, but may have lacked the sense to combat any further progression. When I looked upon my knee to see what had touched it, it was in fact my own hand. I had come back into my own body! With that, I suddenly felt completely at ease, I felt satisfied and the only other feeling I had was an urgency to say goodbye to Amelia. It was now as though my worried, feeble body and mind had become one with the malevolent being whom I’d spent a good deal of this evening with. Upon realizing this, I felt an unyielding flood of a sense of invincibility, words could not describe the feeling of capacity I had to change what, in the world I so despised. With that I screamed, “Come hear!”
She had put on that record, she was listening to Uncle Sander’s record again, which was now adopting quite a peeved sound of resonance on account of it’s age. She couldn’t hear me. I screamed once more “Come down here this instant!” The record player stopped as she ran to the stairwell. My heart began to beat almost out of my chest, my veins were pulsating with anger, adrenaline and boiling blood. In the last seconds before we met, I recall a monotonous chant in my mind of a phrase fueling my disdain for her.
'Tonever forgivher is Together fornever'
“Hello? Is someone down there?”
“Amelia, come down here young lady, I have something for you.” I had not seen her in close to a year, for she would be at quite a loss for words when she saw me. That would be good enough for her, well, at least good for me. The last thing I wished to hear was her voice before I silenced that tongue which was sharpened to a dangerous point on my heart just before it plunged through it. She began once again down the stairs, this time my heart pounded with eagerness, my palms began to sweat as she came closer to the foot of the steps, the creak of the wooden planks grew louder and my entire body began to shake, I began to snicker in a tone most evocative of craze, although I made myself uneasy this wicked laugh, I could not stop it.
As she neared the second floor I lost all reserve of belting out the loudest laugh, it escaped my throat just as her foot came into view, it came like a flood, and so did the rest of the ominous happenings of the night. She stepped down from the last stair and just as quickly, her head peered around the doorway into the sitting room that was just adjacent of the stare case and almost simultaneously cringed at my thunderous voice. When she saw me sitting in that upright position, eyes wide open, head straight forward and with, apparently that very same grin that so deeply frightened myself earlier that night, her face flushed of all blood, her head began to tremble, her hands covered her mouth and she let out a scream almost matching my laugh in volume.
At that split second I stood, moved towards her with swiftness while still maintaining a sense of class about my stride and with maniacal laughter, gripped the shaving blade I’d hidden strapped under my watch, opened the blade and held it straight out pointing to her face boasting a pretentious perfection.
As she quivered in uncertainty and fear, I, for the last time that our eyes ever would meet, in my mind, recalled the very first time our eyes met. I heard the piano that played that afternoon of the wedding between our mutual friends who’d joined bonds in Holy matrimony. Played by her dear old uncle Sander was that enchanting score, a piece written by one of his very own life long friends. I saw her white gown, her beguiling smile and deep blue eyes that matched mine perfectly, that piano played, played loudly; with perfect clarity. Then, I saw the look on her good man’s face when I burst into this very same room exactly one year ago come midnight with flowers in hand and a ring in my pocket. He was angry, defensive and hostile. He held her with familiar hands, as though I was as much of an intrusion as he to myself.
As the words she spoke that night rang loudly in my mind, I swung the polished blade once from right to left, across the beautiful, supple skin on her neck. As deeply as the blade sank into her throat, it will never equal the depth at which she wounded me. I will never be able to dress her every morning with the yolk that she has cast on me. She fell to the floor. I thought one cut to be far to conservative for someone of her nature. For she was cut and blood already soaked one shoulder, yet she was still more beautiful than any I’d laid eyes on.
Taking one knee, I commenced to slash her a second time, this time across the face, making sure to catch an eye, for once I wanted to see more of her than she could see of me. It’s a sad thing for a grown man to feel so childlike in the eyes of his love interest, to feel as though his most earnest efforts at maintaining a sense of manhood still leave him cowering to her. This creature of endless intuition could easily know where I had gone, who I had seen, what I had read and read my dreams for me. As much as I would have wanted this in a wife, the gift was not mutual and now I had decided to take back my virtue of individualism, my peace.
At two strikes she still lie breathing, but she lie still. I thought that this could take a while; I ventured up the stairs, and put back on our wonderful song. Her uncle Sander was always a queer old man, there was something deviant about him and as I looked on the back of the record sleeve, I suddenly understood why. A composer gone by the name of Leonard Samvel wrote this score so beloved by Amelia and myself. Although a famed composer of scores commanding deep adulation from followers of delicate fringe genres and obscure composing fashions, he was rumored to have been involved in questionable acts as a younger man and tended to act queerly upon a release of new pieces. Leonard Samvel had retired several years ago from his auditory concoctions of Heaven knows what due to supposed libel overrunning publications that, in earlier years held his name and work in high regard despite the lack of evidence to support such outlandish claims.
The paper insert inside the canister which held the record had printed on it a synopsis of the work on that particular record as well as an image, rare as this was, of a bald man seemingly in his early fifties and wearing a long thick beard dated some 15 years previous to that present time. This, I declare, was the first case of such extravagant garnishing to adorn a record canister that I had seen, at least dated so as it was and was Samvel’s very first syndicated compilation of work. “His left eye would have just matched Amelia’s uncle Sander’s injured eye. The eyelid drooped to the outside of the face on both men.”
It then dawned on me as I listened to the record proceed that these men were one. Uncle Sander was clean-shaven, but with short thick, gray hair. “I cannot believe I had never made the connection!” This all made perfect sense to me now; this man is indeed an enigma buried beneath a lifetime of shadows! I knew this name from books that I had studied. Revered as a pioneer of raising evil things to walk with us on the earth, he was known to the religious as “The Devil’s Catalyst”. As I reset the record, I was visited by a voice that seemed to be all about me; it was the very essence of the room and likewise filled my head. It instructed me to play backward the song from the end. In haste, I did so. As I spun the record backward, I was spoken to. The lights began to flicker.
In my research of demonology and names, which identify diverse entities, the name ‘Leonard’ belongs to the demon that is the master of sorcery. The name ‘Samvel’ or correctly written ‘SamAel’ refers to the angel of death and the prince of the power of the air. It seemed quite accurate at this junction to concede perhaps this man riddled into all things macabre was in fact infested with at least two entities that have preached their name into our mortal reality by way of his compositions and blatantly named themselves through his tongue. This, to me, at the time, was nothing to be of company with despite an odd yearning to stay in it's precense.
I left the record to play.
When I returned to the second floor Amelia was no longer a blonde, but now a red head. With one last strike of resentment, I swung once more at her neck. The Lister knife was now to be employed. But then I thought it a shame to dirty two utensils for such a small task. This had not taken much time at all, I was quite wrong to assume the contrary.
I then washed my tool in the sink as I thought of making my way down the stairs. With record still playing and a sense of freedom and accomplishment, I stoked the fire a last time and took the chance to have a seat on the sofa to have a good look at the sitting room one more time. As she lay maybe a yard from my feet, the feeling of invincibility slowly began to subside, I glanced at my watch and discovered which was now nigh onto three A.M. The wind was beating furiously against the house and the first morning light would be within a few hours coming close to a peak over the horizon. Within an instant, all feelings of sedation and glee drained from me. Oh my god, what had I done? What was this horrible mess at my feet? What had possessed me to do such a thing? My job! My family! My friends! What would they think? Would they know? Of course they would! The whole world will know when that old hag comes by to commence her weekly cleaning! Ms. Vanderbreght will be at the paper’s doorstep in no time. What am I to do? What am I to do with this mess?
I began trying to rationalize the whole evening’s occurrence. Yet, at the time barely had the memory to piece together what had happened or why. It took me sometime to remember in such detail that I’m telling you the events of that night, I don’t believe my mind allowed me to recall for sake of permanent insanity. I suppose my mind is in fact an advocate of time to be the best healer.
The next, and one of the most haunting episodes of the night was after I had realized, at least in part what I’d done, I made way to the door just down the stairs as quickly as I could, Just as I reached for the doorknob of the door I’d left cracked open upon entry, the door slammed shut! As if someone from outside were attempting to trap me inside. There was not a soul around that door, save my own.
I fought furiously to open the door, beating at it, pushing, pulling, jiggling the lock, but to no avail. I ran up the stairs and took a half turn to the left to the window that overlooked that strange fern I’d noticed earlier in the night. I was going to shimmy down the side of the house and hopefully make a soft landing into the bush. I had the window opened and just as I was about to leap I remembered something. I had to go back for the Lister knife and blade! I stormed through the kitchen and into the room where there was now a most disturbing crime scene to retain my things, I hesitated to glance at what I had done; I could not fight the temptation. Oh, we humans are curious creatures and sometimes so much that it seems it is bad for us. I looked down upon my deed and when I cast my sight upon that hideous spectacle, my stomach rose to my throat, my heartbeat reverberated throughout my body with furious rage and caused my focus to blur, with every beat I became more disoriented, it sickened me to the point of fainting. The last thing that I remember before a knock on the door was my head meeting ever so abruptly with the wooden planks that she lie on, now, with me.
So there we were, one last time. To lie together in the sitting room, blazing fire crackling. As I fell, my hand came to rest in hers as she lay on her back and I on mine. Hand in hand, side by side as the sun rose.
The Tale Of A Violet Mind
Part I- The Suspicious Guests
When the paper had released on the gruesome murder, the facts were so vaguely laid out that even the journalists themselves would be hard pressed to go back into their work and recall, in any detail, the occurrence of which they filled their note pads so full.
It truly sickened me to have to admit to myself what a poor job the paper had done of expressing the intent in which the 'crime' was committed. Of course, I suppose I couldn't altogether expect any accuracy paralleling anything beyond that of a drunkard's fish story. It's not that I wanted to read a beautiful piece of work straight from the papers, no, I would undoubtedly birth that myself, here, where it is quiet. I have solace, peace and a clear mind to make every little decision on what I say and how I say it and I am fully able to deliver into your hands, and still protect what I have made by myself but distorted by others.
Firstly, it wasn't a cool, still evening as the papers so claim. It was a COLD windy night, for it was already past 9 o'clock. Who calls that evening and doesn't rise after noon? Maybe that gives some insight to the work ethic of our dear journalists who so readily report on instances of emotion and conjuring of which they know so little. I digress. It had been raining early in the day and so the sky carried a very queer hue of green, it was almost as if the elements were warning of impending danger. Given the weather, all doors and windows were shut, cellar door locked as well.
I had wondered upon her garden when approaching the house, and I thought to myself, how could a garden so beautiful as to be notice in the black of night be conceived by a woman so vile in nature; so beguiling; so deviant and so disregarding of others as to turn an upright citizen such as myself into an apparently reprehensible character who dreams such disturbing dreams that I so frequently do of blood and stench?
I closed my mind off from these thoughts as I made my way down the side walk which ran between hers and the neighboring house, I neared the back door and spied a bush that seemed quite full for the time of year that it was. It was a fern like plant and to the touch was somewhat prickly, yet plush. It's branches grew from below and grew outward, not upward toward the sky, but almost in the crude shape of a bowl; like a large supine hand with fingers extended to maximize surface area. Odd I thought this to be. And then the thought came to me, I stand here at the door of the wicked, pondering the shape of a stubborn bush whilst preparing to enter unlawfully, the house of one I intended to see only this last time.
I then realized the gravity of my plot and pressed forward to negotiate entrance with the iron doorknob. As I began to fiddle with the thing it once again brought to the forefront of my memory, the only thing as cold and hard on this earth that I ever thought I touched; the heart of the woman I had so deeply cared for, the woman I had known for so long as my very dearest friend. With a bit of patience, a bit of know-how and the rest luck, I managed the door open and was immediately met with a stare case.
Climbing that staircase ever so quietly, I’d thought back to all of the wonderful times I’d so blissfully traversed this very same case. Some of those times carrying her, some of them running to her, even one instance I recalled, running from her as she tried to wet my brand new, prized Italian made Fedora with water from a muddy puddle. That was an eventful day, we had just returned from the carnival where I had won all 6 of those 'un-winnable' prizes. Now, instead of a loud knocking echo as I ascended each next step, there was only silence. That silence seemed somehow to grow with every step upward I took, with that silence was a vexing sense of guilt. Long this stairway was. Eighteen steps in all and in such a narrow space. As I reached the top of the stairs, I slowly crouched so that my head would not become visible to anyone who may have been watching.
Whom was I fooling? There was no one present but she, and at that, from the sound of it, yet another floor above myself. I could hear her humming in harmony a song we used to call 'ours' because of its origin and sentimental value. I'd bought her a record player with the largest horn you've ever seen. I wanted her records to play most resonantly, so that she could hear them as she gardened. Now that I think of it, I dare say it was her suggesting that very idea to me subliminally in an order as to have her way.
That is not like me to disregard the peace and quiet of the neighbors. Once again, I digress. It was that catchy tune that we used to listen to together to recall our first encounter with each other on a record that was given to her by her uncle Sander. I do admit, the chorus had a touch of eeriness to it, appealing, nonetheless.
With her upstairs and no one over to call, I was free to roam the second floor, at least for a short while. I just had to remember the exact spaces in which the floor creaked. From our many nights of dancing in the sitting room, I had noticed several places that the floor needed fixing, unfortunately I hadn't gotten to that before now. I knew that upon entering the sitting room, just to the left, there was one board that was unforgivingly loud, unforgiving on this night indeed. Beyond that were only perhaps two spots to be aware of, at that I begin to think of myself on her third floor.
If I, on the third floor were busy humming away notes that reminded me of the taste of my most recent prey I had devoured, would I even give notion to someone preying on me from below?
“Supposing I am a careful individual, this should not be as difficult as I am beginning to make it.” I whispered to myself. “I ought to keep my mouth shut, concentrate on the task at hand and execute at once.” And then I begin to think to myself “Execute, this is such an odd way of putting it, is it really any type of execution? Am I for once finally in that coveted position of superiority?” I couldn’t have been more thoughtful that night if I had tried, for after that consideration, I fell into a myriad of thoughts that cost me, thankfully nothing but time. Perhaps it was my mind sending my conscience into trance.
One by one, every sweet memory that I had enjoyed with Amelia had raced through my mind as though someone was quickly reeling through frames of a moving picture, with every memory that I passed through, a gut wrenching feeling that I had acquired upon entering the sitting room grew stronger. The emotions were hate, fear and remorse. Hate for feeling the fear and remorse for feeling the first two at all. It was a very unnerving thing to be staring into space in a dark room where I’d been many mornings in times not so long passed awaiting a delicious breakfast from a woman adorned with physical features of decadence whom I saw as my one companion through this insipid tale we refer to as ‘life’. Seated, I had closed my eyes and it was at this point, for some very queer, irrational reason, I began to see myself in this room, sitting on the sofa, sitting up straight with hands on knees and a look in my eye that still haunts me. It was as though she could have come downstairs to find me in this position and I would have done no more than shift my eyes toward her, if that. My gaze was that of a heavy madness.
My view was from across the sitting room, just to the left of the fireplace, which was centered just opposite the sofa. I, to this day, still cannot fully explain my experience from that night, the best that I can do is say that I was not inside myself; not inside my body, yet there WAS indeed something inhabiting the vessel. Once I became fully aware of what was happening, I began to panic; I grew delirious and yet my body across the room did nothing, only my emotions. I thought I moved, I did not move.
I thought I screamed, I did not scream, I thought a tear fell from my eye, yet no tears fell. It was a feeling of utter helplessness and at the same time a feeling of having a greater power than I had ever had before. It tore my logical brain apart, into pieces. I felt lonely and mistaken in my entire belief system of what reality was. Though, in this, I came to see that what I was now a part of afforded me the ability to care not what my hands took part in. On this night I would gladly accept such a virtue.
I became calm and focused my attention on the feelings I had, this was not a hefty task, for it was as if I was newly born; as if I were a ghost; the living body unseen and the dormant completely present; tangible in every way. I took note once more at my eyes from across the room as I sat on the sofa, still in the same, upright position and face of stone. The eerie gaze now filled with only one of the three emotions I had previously felt. Hate. No remorse, my god no remorse! And fear? Do you jest? As I stared deep into my own eyes time became of no concern and the possibility of Amelia discovering me in the sitting room was no longer present in any form of reality I was in touch with by now.
My stare grew deeper, deeper, and yet deeper until I began to feel a tingling sensation rise from my sacral region, all the way up through my back, it traveled to my cervical spine and began to branch out across the back of my head, it wrapped around the sides and onto my face, all the while growing stronger and less bearable. By the time it reached my eyelids it was a burning sensation, I wanted to scream, but could not. I wanted to shake it off, but dare I even tease myself? It began to penetrate my eyelids, into my eyes, as it did this and entered the very center of my head; this terrible feeling dropped down through my body and covered every inch of my skin as it soaked me in pain. I felt as though I was placed into a tub of acid, it went deeper than my skin. It had eaten through to my bones.
I was now looking upward from the ground to myself STILL sitting in most casually on the sofa. I had lost gaze with the eyes of myself opposite me when this mysterious sensation reached my eyes, those of which I saw out, but once again I managed to look into those perplexing things which resembled the oceans hue in a sea storm and was captivated by the allure, so captivated. When in my entire lifetime had I ever been so fixated on these windows of mine? This time, as I lay adoring them, the sensation that had engulfed my body faded into a comforting feeling, likened by only that of a caring mother who swaddles her son tightly and caresses he to her bosom when the boy fall ill. Just when I feel that nothing could break my stare with these beautiful eyes, my self whom I watch began to smile, a devilish smile that formed and I tell you I had, until then, never felt a terror so profound.
All at once it became clear to me what had happened. In my fury I searched the darkest corners of mankind for a fitting way to dispose of my ill will toward Amelia. In an attempt at forgetting and starting anew, I became obsessed with things that not only did not cause me to forget, but also fed the hate. At the time, it seemed a revolutionary means to new life, a deeper belief, and a strong foundation for myself to re establish standards. Magick. A reality opposite that which a relentless vixen, a black succubus, an ostentatious rake such as she, dare not have anything to do with for it is far to powerful and far to true for such an individual of superficiality.
As I became more proficient at the art I practiced, I became more liberal with my demonstrations, even if they were for my feline friend Zurich and myself. Perhaps only now I am waking up. Perhaps I was not as attentive as I had originally planned to be; perhaps I’d gone a bit far.
Perhaps.
When the paper had released on the gruesome murder, the facts were so vaguely laid out that even the journalists themselves would be hard pressed to go back into their work and recall, in any detail, the occurrence of which they filled their note pads so full.
It truly sickened me to have to admit to myself what a poor job the paper had done of expressing the intent in which the 'crime' was committed. Of course, I suppose I couldn't altogether expect any accuracy paralleling anything beyond that of a drunkard's fish story. It's not that I wanted to read a beautiful piece of work straight from the papers, no, I would undoubtedly birth that myself, here, where it is quiet. I have solace, peace and a clear mind to make every little decision on what I say and how I say it and I am fully able to deliver into your hands, and still protect what I have made by myself but distorted by others.
Firstly, it wasn't a cool, still evening as the papers so claim. It was a COLD windy night, for it was already past 9 o'clock. Who calls that evening and doesn't rise after noon? Maybe that gives some insight to the work ethic of our dear journalists who so readily report on instances of emotion and conjuring of which they know so little. I digress. It had been raining early in the day and so the sky carried a very queer hue of green, it was almost as if the elements were warning of impending danger. Given the weather, all doors and windows were shut, cellar door locked as well.
I had wondered upon her garden when approaching the house, and I thought to myself, how could a garden so beautiful as to be notice in the black of night be conceived by a woman so vile in nature; so beguiling; so deviant and so disregarding of others as to turn an upright citizen such as myself into an apparently reprehensible character who dreams such disturbing dreams that I so frequently do of blood and stench?
I closed my mind off from these thoughts as I made my way down the side walk which ran between hers and the neighboring house, I neared the back door and spied a bush that seemed quite full for the time of year that it was. It was a fern like plant and to the touch was somewhat prickly, yet plush. It's branches grew from below and grew outward, not upward toward the sky, but almost in the crude shape of a bowl; like a large supine hand with fingers extended to maximize surface area. Odd I thought this to be. And then the thought came to me, I stand here at the door of the wicked, pondering the shape of a stubborn bush whilst preparing to enter unlawfully, the house of one I intended to see only this last time.
I then realized the gravity of my plot and pressed forward to negotiate entrance with the iron doorknob. As I began to fiddle with the thing it once again brought to the forefront of my memory, the only thing as cold and hard on this earth that I ever thought I touched; the heart of the woman I had so deeply cared for, the woman I had known for so long as my very dearest friend. With a bit of patience, a bit of know-how and the rest luck, I managed the door open and was immediately met with a stare case.
Climbing that staircase ever so quietly, I’d thought back to all of the wonderful times I’d so blissfully traversed this very same case. Some of those times carrying her, some of them running to her, even one instance I recalled, running from her as she tried to wet my brand new, prized Italian made Fedora with water from a muddy puddle. That was an eventful day, we had just returned from the carnival where I had won all 6 of those 'un-winnable' prizes. Now, instead of a loud knocking echo as I ascended each next step, there was only silence. That silence seemed somehow to grow with every step upward I took, with that silence was a vexing sense of guilt. Long this stairway was. Eighteen steps in all and in such a narrow space. As I reached the top of the stairs, I slowly crouched so that my head would not become visible to anyone who may have been watching.
Whom was I fooling? There was no one present but she, and at that, from the sound of it, yet another floor above myself. I could hear her humming in harmony a song we used to call 'ours' because of its origin and sentimental value. I'd bought her a record player with the largest horn you've ever seen. I wanted her records to play most resonantly, so that she could hear them as she gardened. Now that I think of it, I dare say it was her suggesting that very idea to me subliminally in an order as to have her way.
That is not like me to disregard the peace and quiet of the neighbors. Once again, I digress. It was that catchy tune that we used to listen to together to recall our first encounter with each other on a record that was given to her by her uncle Sander. I do admit, the chorus had a touch of eeriness to it, appealing, nonetheless.
With her upstairs and no one over to call, I was free to roam the second floor, at least for a short while. I just had to remember the exact spaces in which the floor creaked. From our many nights of dancing in the sitting room, I had noticed several places that the floor needed fixing, unfortunately I hadn't gotten to that before now. I knew that upon entering the sitting room, just to the left, there was one board that was unforgivingly loud, unforgiving on this night indeed. Beyond that were only perhaps two spots to be aware of, at that I begin to think of myself on her third floor.
If I, on the third floor were busy humming away notes that reminded me of the taste of my most recent prey I had devoured, would I even give notion to someone preying on me from below?
“Supposing I am a careful individual, this should not be as difficult as I am beginning to make it.” I whispered to myself. “I ought to keep my mouth shut, concentrate on the task at hand and execute at once.” And then I begin to think to myself “Execute, this is such an odd way of putting it, is it really any type of execution? Am I for once finally in that coveted position of superiority?” I couldn’t have been more thoughtful that night if I had tried, for after that consideration, I fell into a myriad of thoughts that cost me, thankfully nothing but time. Perhaps it was my mind sending my conscience into trance.
One by one, every sweet memory that I had enjoyed with Amelia had raced through my mind as though someone was quickly reeling through frames of a moving picture, with every memory that I passed through, a gut wrenching feeling that I had acquired upon entering the sitting room grew stronger. The emotions were hate, fear and remorse. Hate for feeling the fear and remorse for feeling the first two at all. It was a very unnerving thing to be staring into space in a dark room where I’d been many mornings in times not so long passed awaiting a delicious breakfast from a woman adorned with physical features of decadence whom I saw as my one companion through this insipid tale we refer to as ‘life’. Seated, I had closed my eyes and it was at this point, for some very queer, irrational reason, I began to see myself in this room, sitting on the sofa, sitting up straight with hands on knees and a look in my eye that still haunts me. It was as though she could have come downstairs to find me in this position and I would have done no more than shift my eyes toward her, if that. My gaze was that of a heavy madness.
My view was from across the sitting room, just to the left of the fireplace, which was centered just opposite the sofa. I, to this day, still cannot fully explain my experience from that night, the best that I can do is say that I was not inside myself; not inside my body, yet there WAS indeed something inhabiting the vessel. Once I became fully aware of what was happening, I began to panic; I grew delirious and yet my body across the room did nothing, only my emotions. I thought I moved, I did not move.
I thought I screamed, I did not scream, I thought a tear fell from my eye, yet no tears fell. It was a feeling of utter helplessness and at the same time a feeling of having a greater power than I had ever had before. It tore my logical brain apart, into pieces. I felt lonely and mistaken in my entire belief system of what reality was. Though, in this, I came to see that what I was now a part of afforded me the ability to care not what my hands took part in. On this night I would gladly accept such a virtue.
I became calm and focused my attention on the feelings I had, this was not a hefty task, for it was as if I was newly born; as if I were a ghost; the living body unseen and the dormant completely present; tangible in every way. I took note once more at my eyes from across the room as I sat on the sofa, still in the same, upright position and face of stone. The eerie gaze now filled with only one of the three emotions I had previously felt. Hate. No remorse, my god no remorse! And fear? Do you jest? As I stared deep into my own eyes time became of no concern and the possibility of Amelia discovering me in the sitting room was no longer present in any form of reality I was in touch with by now.
My stare grew deeper, deeper, and yet deeper until I began to feel a tingling sensation rise from my sacral region, all the way up through my back, it traveled to my cervical spine and began to branch out across the back of my head, it wrapped around the sides and onto my face, all the while growing stronger and less bearable. By the time it reached my eyelids it was a burning sensation, I wanted to scream, but could not. I wanted to shake it off, but dare I even tease myself? It began to penetrate my eyelids, into my eyes, as it did this and entered the very center of my head; this terrible feeling dropped down through my body and covered every inch of my skin as it soaked me in pain. I felt as though I was placed into a tub of acid, it went deeper than my skin. It had eaten through to my bones.
I was now looking upward from the ground to myself STILL sitting in most casually on the sofa. I had lost gaze with the eyes of myself opposite me when this mysterious sensation reached my eyes, those of which I saw out, but once again I managed to look into those perplexing things which resembled the oceans hue in a sea storm and was captivated by the allure, so captivated. When in my entire lifetime had I ever been so fixated on these windows of mine? This time, as I lay adoring them, the sensation that had engulfed my body faded into a comforting feeling, likened by only that of a caring mother who swaddles her son tightly and caresses he to her bosom when the boy fall ill. Just when I feel that nothing could break my stare with these beautiful eyes, my self whom I watch began to smile, a devilish smile that formed and I tell you I had, until then, never felt a terror so profound.
All at once it became clear to me what had happened. In my fury I searched the darkest corners of mankind for a fitting way to dispose of my ill will toward Amelia. In an attempt at forgetting and starting anew, I became obsessed with things that not only did not cause me to forget, but also fed the hate. At the time, it seemed a revolutionary means to new life, a deeper belief, and a strong foundation for myself to re establish standards. Magick. A reality opposite that which a relentless vixen, a black succubus, an ostentatious rake such as she, dare not have anything to do with for it is far to powerful and far to true for such an individual of superficiality.
As I became more proficient at the art I practiced, I became more liberal with my demonstrations, even if they were for my feline friend Zurich and myself. Perhaps only now I am waking up. Perhaps I was not as attentive as I had originally planned to be; perhaps I’d gone a bit far.
Perhaps.
You too, are only creation
Could you be anymore selfish as you creep in white and gray
To my right stealing a seat and planning to stay
With that eerie gaze whispering ‘see me now sir?’
And while you make the effort, desist of that electric flicker.
Nigh is time to let you know your smell; it reeks.
Your breath tells stories of the dead when it speaks.
Have I invited you, you tall, spindly entity?
No, do not answer; I’ve worse things haunting me.
If you stay, stay and smile, laugh a little and for a while
Until my true vexation smothers you out.
Do not feel oppressed when that door so wide slams wild,
Ushering in all of reality at its finest, sit and witness, so beguiled.
It is with deep regret I offer you no outlet, for you have chosen to enter a brazened mind
That forces a most hideous discourse of life and lack of liberty to the absence of any right
Die you again as though the first time in their arms now in my head, blame not my soul,
But your own, you are here to stay.
No demon dare contend, no, he dare not defend
Against the wound of white in womb
Turns gray, turns red and brown and black
Your essence, strength; belief in self
Your icy love, it hates the heart
Which speaks to you now to the end from the start
Of eternity, grave it is, but you know
You my hateful friend are damned to me now
I cannot help but jest to your agony
Blame me not, t’was your lack of conformity
If only I were not born your fear
We might have shared the stare in mirror
To my right stealing a seat and planning to stay
With that eerie gaze whispering ‘see me now sir?’
And while you make the effort, desist of that electric flicker.
Nigh is time to let you know your smell; it reeks.
Your breath tells stories of the dead when it speaks.
Have I invited you, you tall, spindly entity?
No, do not answer; I’ve worse things haunting me.
If you stay, stay and smile, laugh a little and for a while
Until my true vexation smothers you out.
Do not feel oppressed when that door so wide slams wild,
Ushering in all of reality at its finest, sit and witness, so beguiled.
It is with deep regret I offer you no outlet, for you have chosen to enter a brazened mind
That forces a most hideous discourse of life and lack of liberty to the absence of any right
Die you again as though the first time in their arms now in my head, blame not my soul,
But your own, you are here to stay.
No demon dare contend, no, he dare not defend
Against the wound of white in womb
Turns gray, turns red and brown and black
Your essence, strength; belief in self
Your icy love, it hates the heart
Which speaks to you now to the end from the start
Of eternity, grave it is, but you know
You my hateful friend are damned to me now
I cannot help but jest to your agony
Blame me not, t’was your lack of conformity
If only I were not born your fear
We might have shared the stare in mirror
Spread your wings
Under a dismal sky that a day has left behind lay a pair of darling eyes, glazed over, and over flowing of an expose in try hard tone of expression beyond the furthest reaches of a known love to this life. A flower in full bloom is noticing it’s own whither whilst employing all that can be to stay fluorescent and benevolent to the world what feeds the ever growing discontentment, an unhappiness spiting the very existence of such a pure possession of beauty has dreadfully ensued.
Their sight is cast upon the yard behind which the bedroom window overlooks, as the striking blue things climb the daylight to the rooftop of this tangible world, they call out in most stunning silence to their shroud that is to be starry within an hour. It has been heavy on the mind, heavy on the heart and of a heavy timeline soaring swiftly into the presence of this day. Far be it for one, or any who have so many times, in doubt looked away from these smiling eyes crying for help to postpone, let alone altogether impede such a process that mutes all that is, all that ever could be and hoards the very breath of a tender life undiscovered.
It is with severe regret and loathing shame that a soul despair to the depths of a sea of illness that spreads as a wildfire, devouring lights in the soul, words from the mouth, care from the heart and strength of the mind, and reduces our world’s cancers to a cool fever perishing within a day. This infirmity fixes black seed within the main artery of the body, that which makes known the importance of life as our ever-joyful endeavor.
Blueness fades into gray and dry cheeks falter to the first tear as a myriad of memories possessing unsurpassed love rush violently through, dowsing a dieing mind as they are chased off one last time by the plague that is ordered by eternity to descend finally on the virgin soil that has grown this precious being into a magnificent contradiction to life itself and one of endless potential.
As the corrupting darkness wanes the spirit from the earth, the earth salutes the spirit in its own beautiful way and every star in sight winks one last time as the overpowering shroud is pulled more fully over the western light.
A shame and none the less it is that so much could ever be set to rest in so little a proclamation.
’goodbye and I love you’
Their sight is cast upon the yard behind which the bedroom window overlooks, as the striking blue things climb the daylight to the rooftop of this tangible world, they call out in most stunning silence to their shroud that is to be starry within an hour. It has been heavy on the mind, heavy on the heart and of a heavy timeline soaring swiftly into the presence of this day. Far be it for one, or any who have so many times, in doubt looked away from these smiling eyes crying for help to postpone, let alone altogether impede such a process that mutes all that is, all that ever could be and hoards the very breath of a tender life undiscovered.
It is with severe regret and loathing shame that a soul despair to the depths of a sea of illness that spreads as a wildfire, devouring lights in the soul, words from the mouth, care from the heart and strength of the mind, and reduces our world’s cancers to a cool fever perishing within a day. This infirmity fixes black seed within the main artery of the body, that which makes known the importance of life as our ever-joyful endeavor.
Blueness fades into gray and dry cheeks falter to the first tear as a myriad of memories possessing unsurpassed love rush violently through, dowsing a dieing mind as they are chased off one last time by the plague that is ordered by eternity to descend finally on the virgin soil that has grown this precious being into a magnificent contradiction to life itself and one of endless potential.
As the corrupting darkness wanes the spirit from the earth, the earth salutes the spirit in its own beautiful way and every star in sight winks one last time as the overpowering shroud is pulled more fully over the western light.
A shame and none the less it is that so much could ever be set to rest in so little a proclamation.
’goodbye and I love you’
Chase away the gaze
...And it was in his last days that he wrote most truly of his feelings toward the faceless ghost that so long ago had redefined his heart. From boy to man he grew in seconds and it was more than his spirit could bare, this knowledge. In the year after his death, this entry was found torn from the journal in which it was written lieing atop a row of novels in his library. A singular item from his youth's haunt accompanied the page, a glass blown piece of art with on it, the name of his sorrow's ghastly, loving agent.
"All it is that i’ve longed for is one to love, an outlet to recieve my unending affection. There is an unconditional love in me for someone that will not die. I could not tell them, nor show them, i could not speak a word or take any action that may have lent them notion of my heart’s true intent. I have seen much failure, sporadic are the victories followed by a prolonged monotony of difficulty in establishing balance in life.
Gazing into large, brown eyes that are cast on and then away from me by a being in this life that i can whole heartedly say i have fallen deep into the ranks of love with, i want to be drawn in completely, i wish to experience this person in their own realm; in their own life. I wish to be a part of their life, be their life, and they mine. They struck a blue, pure burning fire within my heart. When the fire burns for them, it burns deeply and grants me quite estimably strong emotions to know that such a lethal force can dwell so heavily within me and i not recoil, save for when addressing the thought that i have in fact found such a magnificient form of existence. And when that fire burns out of rage, it burns still ever so deeply, scars form and i suffer greatly, for i now feel the fire from the outside and not within. It is an evil burning and takes me away from the love i somehow find time and again. This avulsion is most traumatic and resentment crackles as the flames die to embers before it is miraculously struck once again by the soft, cold hands of the one whom I long for eternity with. This angry fire burns not with my will, not with my urge to love more deeply than the most hopeless romantic has ever dreamed, it burns to destroy me and in that i have no other aspiration but to rise above and destroy the spirit enraging the fire. That, i simply cannot do and so i turn my nefarious thoughts to the world and distribute words and hope dowsed in death to all deserving in my eyes. Heavy is my antipathy of the origin of this fire because in some form, this abandonment was birthed from innocence; the same innocence i fell to and that struck the essence of my mind and heart that allows me to love so openly.
I have not healed, i have not become whole; there has been no completion of my spirit following this wake. In times passed love has gripped my heart only for that grip to whither and blow away. Now love has grown from it’s seed in the very core of my heart and intertwined itself the full breadth of me and has solidified root in places i cannot see, let alone reach. It has grown up through my physical being and reached my rotting mind where it has fruited and now confuses nature all together with putrid thoughts of a lingering smell that is so sweet one cannot neglect and as those thoughts pass away, new fruit continues to sprout. The old has continued to fall away and so dwelled together in a contention with myself that only sets me on edge. Alas, i can do nothing but hope that one day, as mysteriously as the seed was planted, what it has grown into will become barren, rot and fall away also. Only then i feel will my thoughts regain a life that does not captivate them into a horrid tantrum of evil, tainted and sorrowful wishings of a time non existant draped with a small hope peering over the blackening intent that dwells there. An excerpt from my writings may clarify what i mean to say:
'There are times of an unhealthy frequency that I feel utter hatred and wish to contribute my very own ritual begotten in this deadly weapon i hold inside my chest to you and to life itself, but i cannot. It is that love which runs through my veins more purely than my own blood that causes me to reserve a place for you in this life which is pure and whole.'
If i could feel so strongly about a saviour as i do you, perhaps my soul would truly be saved. You are the only light i have known to any extent and that extent is so intensely beyond my scope of comprehension that i shutter after only seconds of thought upon you. You do not understand what you have done and because of that, i am imprisoned. Although my rage never overshadows my love for you, i am hurt, angry and alone."
The old man wrote.
"All it is that i’ve longed for is one to love, an outlet to recieve my unending affection. There is an unconditional love in me for someone that will not die. I could not tell them, nor show them, i could not speak a word or take any action that may have lent them notion of my heart’s true intent. I have seen much failure, sporadic are the victories followed by a prolonged monotony of difficulty in establishing balance in life.
Gazing into large, brown eyes that are cast on and then away from me by a being in this life that i can whole heartedly say i have fallen deep into the ranks of love with, i want to be drawn in completely, i wish to experience this person in their own realm; in their own life. I wish to be a part of their life, be their life, and they mine. They struck a blue, pure burning fire within my heart. When the fire burns for them, it burns deeply and grants me quite estimably strong emotions to know that such a lethal force can dwell so heavily within me and i not recoil, save for when addressing the thought that i have in fact found such a magnificient form of existence. And when that fire burns out of rage, it burns still ever so deeply, scars form and i suffer greatly, for i now feel the fire from the outside and not within. It is an evil burning and takes me away from the love i somehow find time and again. This avulsion is most traumatic and resentment crackles as the flames die to embers before it is miraculously struck once again by the soft, cold hands of the one whom I long for eternity with. This angry fire burns not with my will, not with my urge to love more deeply than the most hopeless romantic has ever dreamed, it burns to destroy me and in that i have no other aspiration but to rise above and destroy the spirit enraging the fire. That, i simply cannot do and so i turn my nefarious thoughts to the world and distribute words and hope dowsed in death to all deserving in my eyes. Heavy is my antipathy of the origin of this fire because in some form, this abandonment was birthed from innocence; the same innocence i fell to and that struck the essence of my mind and heart that allows me to love so openly.
I have not healed, i have not become whole; there has been no completion of my spirit following this wake. In times passed love has gripped my heart only for that grip to whither and blow away. Now love has grown from it’s seed in the very core of my heart and intertwined itself the full breadth of me and has solidified root in places i cannot see, let alone reach. It has grown up through my physical being and reached my rotting mind where it has fruited and now confuses nature all together with putrid thoughts of a lingering smell that is so sweet one cannot neglect and as those thoughts pass away, new fruit continues to sprout. The old has continued to fall away and so dwelled together in a contention with myself that only sets me on edge. Alas, i can do nothing but hope that one day, as mysteriously as the seed was planted, what it has grown into will become barren, rot and fall away also. Only then i feel will my thoughts regain a life that does not captivate them into a horrid tantrum of evil, tainted and sorrowful wishings of a time non existant draped with a small hope peering over the blackening intent that dwells there. An excerpt from my writings may clarify what i mean to say:
'There are times of an unhealthy frequency that I feel utter hatred and wish to contribute my very own ritual begotten in this deadly weapon i hold inside my chest to you and to life itself, but i cannot. It is that love which runs through my veins more purely than my own blood that causes me to reserve a place for you in this life which is pure and whole.'
If i could feel so strongly about a saviour as i do you, perhaps my soul would truly be saved. You are the only light i have known to any extent and that extent is so intensely beyond my scope of comprehension that i shutter after only seconds of thought upon you. You do not understand what you have done and because of that, i am imprisoned. Although my rage never overshadows my love for you, i am hurt, angry and alone."
The old man wrote.
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