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 No(ode) to the Night Manifesto in Tribute to Darkness!

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Mœrilindë Thranduiliel
MÊlÊth MarthannÊn Alfîrîn Nîn
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Posts : 316
Join date : 2015-07-27

PostSubject: No(ode) to the Night Manifesto in Tribute to Darkness!    Thu Sep 03, 2015 1:20 am



Like a Star @ heaven No(ode) to the Night Manifesto Like a Star @ heaven


“Good night, Mina.” “No. God Night. God is the Night!”
The Night. Am I a creature of the Night? Or is she a creature of her own? An elusive entity, unidentifiable yet personified. Is that not why we poets sing of her as a Lady clad in Enigma – a Goddess? Come the Night – she changes everything, doesn’t she? A purring cat becomes a stalking candle-eyed goblin, a homeless old rover – ghastly phantasm eerily adrift midst the nightly draft, a neat little street turns serpentine labyrinth…
Two passers-by, stead of exchanging a courteous nod – just rush, avoiding eye contact, looking away in haste, as if guilty. As if they know what human Nature has it in itself to do in the darkest hours… As if knowing how they really want to hurt each other. A good man with the dark mask of anonymity turns servant of sin, turns beast… just give him the strike of Witching hour to synchronize with the stabs of his dagger!
And yet, at Night things are never simpler, but always deeper. It transfigures all! As everything breaks and bends through the shadowy filter of her spectrum. A cracked, black monocle - her twisted otherworld. She bids you see the world through her own eyes. A demimonde of tricks and treat, nightmare and reverie, fear with a lustful leer. Where the head knows not what the tail is doing and you know what? Partially, there lies the beauty of it. The Night unwinds her reeling grasp to embrace all of the sins, the ill will, the cruel intentions a mind can contrive as if greedily bidding they be done in her courtyard alone! Upon the great darksome altar. 
So why do I wallow in her, like no tomorrow, pray tell? Why do I breathe her in so deeply my lungs might very well burst? Why do I draw on her like she alone is thatched out of the very fiber of sustenance my soul thrives upon? Is it because no one is left to hate me, at Night? They all lay down their pretty little heads, go to their petty sleep. They all die their little deaths as I pray, against what vaguely human part of me is left, that they would roll off Hypnos’ lap and right down unto the knees of Thanatos! 
Why do I see the Universe when I gaze upon the Stars? I see all there ever needs to be. Eternity, tranquility, ubiquity, fatality and utter veneration! Deity, Darkness, Divinity… 
Mayhap, had I been thus fortuitously endowed by the Almighties, I would compose a litany to the Night, an Ode. And not an odious one, at that. But this here bland babble by a whore of Babel… cannot compare to what I strive to encompass! To even begin to capture this impalpable emulation, let alone elaborate on it…  But, alas… it would be Nocturnal Blasphemy to call this an Ode!       
They say that we human beings are not made to live in lucubration – I say we are not worthy! Though that is, ironically, what this work is born from. They say the restless souls that go bump in the Night live shorter lives, are more easily struck by disease, smite down as if in punishment… I say there is always a price to pay, for beholding a Sacrament! For existing alongside the Divine ancient forces that be. For inhaling the toxic extracts of Ecstasy that forever enrapture. I say it is only fair, that weak eyes shall burn upon reflecting beams of the brightest moonstone, made not for those eyes to scrutinize. A price paid for beauty betrayed. A price for beauty beyond our privilege, many leagues out of our league’s reach. As I look upon the Night, I look upon as an illiterate peasant child would examine a book. But not just any book. A fine, black, leather-encased volume etched upon timeless parchment with pure heartsblood ink! Gold-studded yet wanting a title. To perceive the beauty, the aerodynamics and perfect balance of proportions, the symmetry of spiritual synchronicity pulsating against your fingertips…  To feel how laden it is with substance & sustenance, rather concentrated to its very (quint)Essence… True meaning seated in the throne of knowledge that is to you but arcane lore, indecipherable.  Art Macabre. To see it there, to clutch it within your palms, to feel it slipping away between their shaky sweat-soaked grasp…to know how Paramount, how beautiful, how artfully crafted and yet – not a single word that can be read! They are all there - the strange twines and twirls teasingly unknown, unspeakable, untranslatable… and oh how they vibrate! They speak a language you are deaf to, sing a song that would only ever sever your chords, the words your tongue will tie in a knot before it slips into uttering! Thus, so inarticulate…you feel like a fish out of water while trying to worship your Element, which you are fated for. Must trust in Amor Fati!  There can be no stronger anticipation, overshadowed by not greater frustration. You are heartily disheartened and enchantingly disenchanted… 
And there you kneel; begging the book, pledging your soul and fidelity, praying it might read itself to you. Hoping for…just a line, no…even a word…. By Gods - a single sound! May it give itself to You! Just to you, in particular! Because you know you are the destined one! Pray tell, why else would you have thought all of this? ∞ 



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