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| It has ever been my conceit that I could force the hands of the gods. Just as man creates the gods in his own image, so do I seek to force the Fates to bend knee to my very whim. They are now confined to a time and place of my own choosing and will perform their duties as I direct.
I look up at the laden clouds and see how they reflect the darkness of the void. I look around and see the face of Nyx in the space between every atom of every tree and building. It fills me with terrible wonder to know that this is merely an ephemeral dream, this illusion of hard, material reality that we force upon the nothingness that surrounds us. This strange nihilism has beguiled me for quite some time now. There is no consolation to be had. It has ever been the nature of life to be bound by chains of death. The goddess Hel eternally calls Baldur to her cold bosom, and all the light and poetry and beauty of creation goes ever dim. Authur merely sleeps and will rise again to renew Briton. I know this to be as big a lie as the Christ. There is nothing left for anyone in this dark place. Maybe there lies some new beauty beyond the far shore. Maybe Keats' "struggle to escape" will reveal some new truth for us, some other beauty, writ large in letters of fiery oblivion. I know not. I can't help but laugh as the insanity of it all takes me back over the things I've known. There has ever been some dark purpose behind the things that I have done. Maybe death will prove some new adventure, guised to trap a soul such as mine which has never cared for adventures. I know not and care not. Surely though there must be some Dionysian revel, some orgy of destruction and madness, in which we will find solace rest. The time for that will come, though, after the curtain falls and the act is once and for all played out. I will wait for you, and we will walk hand-in-hand through Elysian fields. We will wander the Blessed Isles together, as it should be. |
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