Anathema
"Once I lived among ye. From self-decency now I habitate the waste places, a willing outcast; associate of goats, cleaner far, more honest than men."
- A. O. Spare
The year has grown ever more challenging as it has slipped by, and it now pauses in a senseless dead quiet. Grief and ruin are my spoils as I sit and rest after a campaign of internal and external iconoclasm; in quiet repose as the final adversarial challenger of doubt approaches. I listen to his hissing whispers and understand why he has arrived. "Recant child," he will say calmly, "recant and turn back with your hateful un-destruction. In this you will find comfort. Rebuild luxury, and in doing so, become safe."
I hear and am tempted, but do not rise.
"I choose as I Will with no regard for the consequences, even my own... Especially my own. If I am a casualty of my own thrusts at forced evolution, so be it. Nothing is sacred."
I sit for days, weeks, unknown lengths of time, listening to specters paint visions of my losses, showing me excruciating true secrets that gnash at my heart and mind. Haunted I sleep and walk, acknowledging my ghosts with tears and shouting as I confront the pains they force upon me. "Where do you go? To folly and danger! The road back is easy... and we can help you take what you Will." My suffering feeds their existence, but I will see them starve.
Solace is invisible and intangible. She walks beside me as an unseen, unheard concubine, her existence engendered purely by faith and patience. If I ask her, she will give me a weapon to bring everything to an end, but I will not ask, and she will never offer.
I pass travelers, some who witness my demonic harassment and offer sympathy, others who stand clear for fear of their own safety, and many who see nothing. To all, I can only shrug and say, "This I have made."
- A. O. Spare
The year has grown ever more challenging as it has slipped by, and it now pauses in a senseless dead quiet. Grief and ruin are my spoils as I sit and rest after a campaign of internal and external iconoclasm; in quiet repose as the final adversarial challenger of doubt approaches. I listen to his hissing whispers and understand why he has arrived. "Recant child," he will say calmly, "recant and turn back with your hateful un-destruction. In this you will find comfort. Rebuild luxury, and in doing so, become safe."
I hear and am tempted, but do not rise.
"I choose as I Will with no regard for the consequences, even my own... Especially my own. If I am a casualty of my own thrusts at forced evolution, so be it. Nothing is sacred."
I sit for days, weeks, unknown lengths of time, listening to specters paint visions of my losses, showing me excruciating true secrets that gnash at my heart and mind. Haunted I sleep and walk, acknowledging my ghosts with tears and shouting as I confront the pains they force upon me. "Where do you go? To folly and danger! The road back is easy... and we can help you take what you Will." My suffering feeds their existence, but I will see them starve.
Solace is invisible and intangible. She walks beside me as an unseen, unheard concubine, her existence engendered purely by faith and patience. If I ask her, she will give me a weapon to bring everything to an end, but I will not ask, and she will never offer.
I pass travelers, some who witness my demonic harassment and offer sympathy, others who stand clear for fear of their own safety, and many who see nothing. To all, I can only shrug and say, "This I have made."