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| Pornographic Suicide -
10-11-05
This is the first "chapter" of the Dark Muse. If anyone likes it I will add more, as the whole thing is about fifty pages all together. The Dark Muse By Nathan Charles I As the ancient ship sailed across the sea broken souls and angry spirits swam within the fog. The fog of deceit as the weeping echoed through this darkness of our own creation. Out from this unseen womb, somewhere drifting and alone, Eros heard the fluttering of wings, distant as he strained to hear. Struggling for comprehension of this unknown presence Eros' consciousness lay naked, waiting for the awakening, the discovery of this thing… what was it? What did he search for on this expedition? It seemed he’d lost a cause. How was it that he found himself drowning in this darkness, this fog, this atmosphere of screaming and flashes of decay; images, unreal. Were these faces surfacing as he tried in vain to catch a glimpse? He searched for it; this thing driving him. Destiny? No. Destiny is action irremediable. We are destined to our will. Each incitement is an act of fate and all that he portray is that which we receive. What had driven Eros to delve so far into this wilderness of his own metaphorical insanity? How long at sea? How had he forgotten all that was? Nameless faces, sleepless hours. He sailed through voices, whispers, hinting at his heart. What had he forgotten? What was lost? What had become? The fluttering of wings suddenly became a roar and he wondered, were these the wings of demons surfacing from out the fog of innocence? Darkness to all eyes which do not see… Sailing, seeking what? Eros searched, struggling to escape the distortion of these screams, this fluttering of wings, these surfacing faces, taunting him in the shadow of his view; naught but a glimpse at that of which is tangible. These whispers, somehow louder than the screams. With what, he wondered, did they beckon him? Why? Such confusion, yet somehow he understood this lament. Such words that danced just out of reach, compromising comprehension. What was it, overall, that could induce such longing, such desire for this thing? It hinted secret beauty, surrounded as it was by this decay, this suffering, so familiar… The fog surrounded him, remaining, as it was, the apotheosis of pure anguish. Human anguish, the suffering of souls made real before his hungry eyes. This hunger, this longing, was all that remained his life, of himself. Primitive, yet contained; this ancient instinct. And this moving fog, souls put on display. An esoteric music of all past pain that dwindled in his aged and callous heart. This hurt that seems to fade, only to surface once again at the slightest form of persuasion. Perhaps music, drifting from out of nowhere, tugging at the tissue of a hidden scar. An injury thought forgotten. Or a scent, perhaps, some perfume caught for an instant, reminding us of lovers dead and gone. The music of this dome of fog began to quicken as these thoughts reached his mind. And suddenly a scent began to permeate, familiar, hinting. Seductions of the past. He imagined himself rising up through this dome, this portrait of decay and vulgar renderings of agony. How long would it take to reach the light? How much suffering before the gratification of bliss? Eros found himself consumed by this secret pondering when a memory began to surface. It was a dream he’d had long ago and it began to flood vividly from out his own private abyss… From the balcony of a castle he viewed, from dizzying heights, a play. A silent play, as naught was heard save that of the muted murmurs of consciousness. There were gestures seen here and there, bodies draped in an era of renaissance. The play was vacant and meaningless, the actors lost and afraid. Gesticulations of confusion beckoned him and he found himself leaping from the balcony and as he fell he began a spiral. Eros could see a thousand faces from a thousand balconies as he plummeted toward the stage, which was really a courtyard made from cold white marble. The balconies surrounded the stage and all were filled with these staring faces, beautiful in their shocked and fearful silence. At last he reached the foot, touching softly to the ground. The actors quickly surrounded him in their desperation. They begged him to write a play for them. He was pulled this way and that by this group of pitiful strangers. All faces were animated with the same desperate look. He loved, as he laughed, being the at the heart of such desperate need. Of course he would write a play for them; and from out of this throng of uninflected emptiness came a tablet and a feather pen. He began to write, rapidly creating scene after scene, part after part, until the wall in front of him began to open up, revealing the darkest abyss he had ever laid eyes upon. It was immense and foreboding. The actors fled from this darkness and Eros was left to face it, alone. He felt himself floating out of this strange and silent castle, or rather the castle began to float around and away from him, and he was suddenly surrounded by this darkness as the castle was quickly swept away. And from out of this endless black he heard a million voices, ethereal and in perpetual soprano. It was unreal in its angelic beauty, so mellifluous Eros nearly wept. It was the sound of innocence, untouched by pain or anguish or despair. It was love made sound. Then, from out of nowhere it became sight. And such a beautiful sight it was, holding as it did an incandescent brilliance. It was a ship, immense and floating toward him as he awaited the embrace of its singing passengers with staring eyes and open arms. Angels, so lovely, so incredibly wondrous in their resplendent yet somehow gentle glow. There were millions of them, yet they seemed as one, moving in a pattern of caressing and affection… of love. Eros looked down at his hands, realizing that he still held in them the tablet and feather pen, and as he did there suddenly came a voice, or rather a presence animated with a message… one of danger. Not for him, but for these angels he so loved. Where does this danger come from, he demanded. Laughter emanated from the presence, and Eros realized with an abrupt and astonished horror that the danger came from the presence itself. Would you save them? the presence taunted him. If so, than how are you to continue to create? What action could possibly be taken if you continue to hide behind the barrier of tablet and pen and quiver and bow? Again, he laid eyes upon his hands pondering the significance of this. What poet was it that had had this same revelation? This terrible discovery that his mind could not possibly carry a balance between receiving inspiration and becoming inspiration. Impossible to be his own muse. Inspiring others was his muse. His only source of comfort, tearing him away from the inner suffering… wait. Slipping away. Eros watched as the tablet and pen slipped from his hands, ripping out of him like the soul of a lover who never really cared. But there was no time to try and mend a broken heart, for the soprano of his beloved angels became a million horrid cries of pain. And, all at once these cries molded into one massive blur of pure anguish. He saw them falling, his angels, falling into the dark, the despair, the empty. Nothingness is clarity. These words came flashing, momentarily, meaningless. His hands, filling with this light, angelic, animate, struggling to gather these deities to himself. Eros' own soul as a sanctuary for these lost beings, betrayed by a faith in something unseen. They had journeyed on a ship of faith through nothingness, meaninglessness. The eventuality of such a journey had led to the inevitable outcome of all blind faith: unseen death. This presence, this “faith,” had turned its back on them. And Eros tried to save them, but they were too numerous, their light too vivid and immense. The inner sufferings of his heart made it impossible to harbor outside light; outside beauty. This hidden darkness held an arrogance, an unconscious selfishness where Eros found himself consumed by the notion that all things lovely were made for him, for his benefit… The familiarity in these remembrances of the self was a comfort, if nothing else. But as he relished in this state of introspection Eros found himself wandering away, or rather the memory wandered away like a glimmer of hope shattered by an inevitable despair. He struggled to retain this glimpse of himself as he returned to the fog. To the fluttering of wings and perpetual cries of torment. But soon the glimpse began to dissipate and to fade. The manner in which it fell away gave the impression of the dead decaying in an instantaneous crumbling of the molecular structure. Of flowers curling into a dry darkness within moments, ever after portraying the likeness of the dead. As the gaze of consciousness returned to its outward state Eros became aware that a change had taken place aboard his ship. He could not remember a single moment on this expedition when his eyes had met with those of his men. Strange. Had communication been entirely mechanical? As he returned from his inward reflection he’d found himself surrounded by their faces. Their blank and staring eyes were fixed upon his being, gazing through him as it were, and Eros wondered what it was that lay behind this vacant stare. Perhaps, in their monotonous wallowing through this esoteric fog they had reached a state of primitive interaction with the symbolic wilderness surrounding them. Sensation without perception. Perhaps, his sudden leap into actual thought, into actual perception of that which he received, had stirred something in them that could not have otherwise been felt. Had Eros not fully reached that primeval state of pure instinctual awareness? As he gazed upon this crowd of staring eyes he realized that there was no possible way of knowing, for memory is the essence of conscious thought. And memory of instinctual experience is not a memory of any actual event, but a memory of that which dictate the nature of our impulses. There was simply no way of knowing whether or not he had reached this state of blankness. As he pondered this Eros noticed something in his men quicken. And as he became aware of this they backed away, slightly. Who were these men? These primitive creatures who were apparently affected by each vibration of his mind. He had been pondering things as far back on this journey as he could remember and they hadn’t stirred before. What caused this change? It seemed they rose from their mechanical stupor after the memory of his life before the fog had taken shape. After the recollection of a dream. What was it that captured them in the feeling of this dream, this memory, that had done nothing before? What was the nature of the trance in which they moved? Was it a trance? Or was it simply the world as it always had been and always would be? No. He had to fight this notion. A memory had surfaced and Eros would not be forced to let it go. But what of the fog? How would Eros begin to penetrate this thing surrounding them so closely, yet moving with them just out of reach? He would find a way. He would break the dome of fog to reach the Sun-soaked shores of bliss. Eros would find answers to these cries of anguish, the fluttering of wings his own. These faces dancing just out of reach would be unveiled to reveal their hidden beauty. But what of this veil? What of this beclouded blanket hinting at unseen suffering? Was this covering of numinous fog meant as a womb to protect seeing eyes from the truths that lay waiting? Truth is to be feared is it not? No. This was wrong. These were not his words, Eros realized with a sudden, yet stymied wave of fear. Not only were these thoughts alien to him, but not his at all. Someone, or some thing, some presence, was manipulating his thoughts, attempting to crush his undying optimism under the fallacy of unmitigated misery. It promised comfort in this endless gloom and despair, this wallowing in purgatory. A weak and pathetic coward’s paradise. An ignorance of those who have never conquered, never overcome. Never will I fall into this, he thought, and as he did his petty fear became pure and seething rage. Let the fog take hold. Let it consume you. Give in to the utter hopelessness of your own private agony. You will die if you try to fight. Suddenly a cry erupted from the inner-most regions of his being, and Eros felt his head fall back with the overpowering fury of this cry. Strange that it could rise from him before he had even become aware of it. Strange that he saw these hands moving out in front of his body to attack the members of his crew as he realized that the presence, the voice, was them, or perhaps speaking through them. He felt his thumbs pushing the flesh of shielding eyelids, popping through and leaving two gaping founts of gushing blood. He felt the grip of his hand upon the knife as organs spilled and fluids spattered and his scream became all the more frenzied until it was more cerberusian than god… www.pornographicsuicide.com
Last edited by Nathan Charles : 10-12-05 at 18:35.
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