Sunday, March 05, 2006

Demon Etchings


I leave these words for any unfortunate who should pass this way.
Do not remain here; there is naught here save damnation.
I have stayed too long, by preordination or by cowardice I know not which and it matters little for I have become what I always have been; a demon.
My home is an absurdity; all the elements are upside down. The sea no longer threatens the journey of this sleeping ship and the ship has grown soft in not having to resist to sea’s onslaught. In a sense this should be perfect, life without physical threat. It is not.
Let these scraps of sepia parchment be my confession; my obituary should it be possible to find some other place where death holds no deeper horror than the end of existence.
My conclusion is as follows:
It is love that makes all things happen; this journey so deep and short; so woefully unforgiving and brutally lonely. And it is love too that is the only refuge; the raft at which to cling when the faith in God’s wrath does wane; a strawberry in a field of thistles.
I am in need now of the company of one whose beauty of form and spirit would allow me to separate them from all others, being neither predator nor prey, but mind of equal and opposite parts, whose shared experience would soften the way forward and allow to enter those open wounds of tender regard that the soul deems more valuable than all else.
But you traveller who by circumstance driven must pass this way, you who may have lived a life that did not concern itself with all the surrounding darkness, you whose faith is yet unbroken by this place, you need not heed the words of this lesser demon or greater god. What constitutes your soul is yours alone, with only you who will be its judge, jury and executioner. It is here that true power resides, here at the centre of a universe created for one god – the god that resides at the core of the human mind.
I am but a leaf, pressed twixt the pages of the days; the hours; the minutes. I am dust on the wings of the eons, blown hither and yon by the whim of whatever passes as the creator; not worthy of judgement; fit for punishment at the hands of my own desires and weaknesses. I am a shell for the hollow longing; a carrion marionette in this sideshow where lost souls go, their callused hearts to shed in laughter black and cruel.
I am not worthy of this narrative, for it is not the confessions of the damned, but rather the petitions of the worthy, that deserve the attention of Hope.
Farewell traveller, and pray that, on some ragged link, further down that cursed chain, you do not come face to face with the demon that resides in your own heart.
Excerpt from 'Markov Chain'

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