The Darkness Behind the Darkest Belt of Darkness
Darkness — beautiful, silent, mute, and opportunistically and eerily deaf — an all-encompassing sensory barrier radiating with a blunt, dimmed sharpness that, by its very presence and existence, freezes even the bravest beat of a human heart. It devours them in the totalitarian murmur of comfortable neglect, in a dimension of darkness burdened by its own accumulated madness, submerged in the bare realm of a demagogic self-attest, an unconventional wicked clarity and alienated dark sharpness — one that is always insatiably hungry. Forever born in blinding misery, on the slopes of a terminally ill, darkest epic, where down is up and up does not exist. Not a single playful sunray dances its seductive dance there, in that interspace of possessive deviation, laden with the burden of inhuman vanity and a conflicted nucleus of functional, purest evil — where even the stars themselves are born forgotten, born black, of strange stature for their kind, and every one of their impulses is carelessly and demystifyingly evil.
It is a place where the apocalyptic womb of the black world and the blood-starved heart of the vilest evil reigns, dreaming its heavy, rigid dreams and forever drowning in the bitter annals of its intellectually, darkly-apostrophized insomnia.
It is the cube behind the first cube, which jealously kisses the first in hope of finally uncovering the secret of the human soul — and thus finally freeing itself from the infernal darkness that is the living verdict of that deviant and unfeeling monster. One bound by a belt of burning, yet eternally cold darkness, grown to titanic proportions that would easily shame a small planetary moon or some overly ambitious, flu-stricken comet.
Many wonder what the true function of evil is — to be evil for its own sake? For there is nothing in that heart, never was — born naked and indescribably cold, full of prejudice and from early on, before the first meaningful step, alienated from a society that carries traces of laughter and serves as the arena for the enigmatic roar called the soul.
How can anyone be born into such a global context of absolute and incomprehensible, inelegant vengeance and regressive, cannibalistic darkness? And why is that even possible — feasible? Isn’t the cosmos a sufficiently vast artery and expansive vein at the same time for all forms of life — even those subversive and irreparably malformed?
When does consciousness — the being — lose its right to a soul? When it is alienated from the brilliance offered by the ergonomics of pure and untainted awareness, which instead of growing rapidly, sinks ever deeper into deception and abyss, where everything and everyone is totally and opportunistically alone.
How long must awareness wander in the darkness of existence to forget the memory of its own affection — toward itself and toward others? Is it a matter of days, months, years… or centuries?
When does a star, painted in colors of indescribable beauty, become a cold and aggressively aroused serpent — black-skinned, red-eyed, and with fangs that, if they could, would bite through their own hissing black lips?
Are we hearing, perhaps, a voice of some variant of the almighty Leviathan, or are we speaking of an evil that has drifted eons beyond even that primordial mythic predator — who, in his gigantic corpulence and unbreakable raw power, has no living match in the recorded annals of known and unknown cosmos?
Ah, dear readers — this seemingly casual, impulsively constructed tale now becomes strangely and uncommonly intriguing…
The end — for now.
HP Lebencraft 5202