Something about me… it takes a lot to freak out someone like me. I’m not a runaway carnivale entertainer with a genetic anomaly. I don’t have a disturbed past, nothing extraordinarily gothic atleast. Neither do I hone psychic skills. The pentacle has been a fascination as a kid, but spirits have always eluded at ouija board sessions, candle lit moonless nights, and even haunted houses we raided in search of a fable. Never sensed alternate vibes or paranormal activity lurking around the corner.
Feared…oh yes! Absolutely. The possibility of an adventure. The excitation of a supernatural experience. The exhilaration of feeling something inhumane, something immortal, something demonic. Fed on books, delved into philosophies, let notes of death pour from speakers, painted my roof black, blacked out all light, propelled into the chasm of pagan worship, sketched the dark …….wanted so badly to believe. But St. Lucifer wanted nothing to do with me. Hades Chariot would never carry me to portals of fire and glory. I would never be Satan’s spawn. I never really wanted to be the Dark Angel. Wanted nothing much… just few stories to narrate of my own. Some freak shows of my own to show.
Not only did I never encounter the dark, but in time my obsession drew the fear out. And when the fear fled, so did expression. It’s strange, but whenever I sat down to weave words, they poured out of pain and misery. Most ironic the fact that the grief was never mine. Deliberately pierced wounds to self to feel forlorn and let the ink flow free onto paper. But when grief was real….. ink froze, pen broke, paper tore and fingers warped.
Friends have found the light in me always. Spent hours emptying souls and healing wounds. Have wept with them, wallowed in their grief, felt those twangs of pain running through the warmth of those tight embraces. Felt paralysed and enraged with despair. But that pain was never mine.
Self grief has been locked in abysmal Loch-ness. Release has never occurred. Strangest part is………….can’t make out if its deliberate or accidental.
Have chased darkness too long. An uncle once made a movie romancing the black. Self imposed the blackness around to feel. Inspired perfection? Yes he did! Won acclaim? Yes he did! But pain of self………….no, never, no story there…. “When pain is not subjective, its beautiful. But when you live it, its ugly,” he told me and that time I knew what he was saying.
I’m in a nation where pain is pleasure. Misery is enjoyable and death an orgasmic release of passion. Have heard stories, documented events, disgusted at cults and rituals deemed to be blasphemy! (pardon the 14 years of Convent education).
At times faith does assume mystical proportions. A sudden revelation struck while interviewing a beautiful eunuch at a congregational ceremony ……..maybe………probably…………crazily………possibly……….Life is not supposed to be dark after all! I don’t belong to this creed.
Could it be?
Or easy retirement. Solace... 'n plenty of it!
"Thank you for visiting...Do come again"
.jpg)
