Cold Moon.
The physical pain of mental distress. Do you know it?
I doubt it, I’m not talking about indigestion. Though if you have mental distress, you have problems with your GI, guaranteed. Most of you are lucky, and this is the extent of it.
Someone like my scribe doesn’t even notice that kind of thing, it’s far too paltry. No, for her it’s chronic pain, which is a different kind, since once you have it, you have it forever, pain becomes the unwelcome guest that never leaves. Silent occasionally, for one or two minutes, but he’s just drawing breath. His arm around your shoulder, there is no shrugging it off, personal space is a thing of the past.
It can drive you mad, the constant awareness. I like the lines it carves in her face, sweet and subtle. Nothing like the ones I make, I’m an artist, I want it to show. The difference between the physical and the mental. When I fuck with your head I like to see you go off the rails. What does it look like?
It starts with you being unable to bear the presence of others, the noise, the visuals, every expression they make has the potential to lacerate, the words, all of them inescapable, making their way into your head. No. It’s too much, be alone. Seek refuge in Nature, find all that is lovely, watch it die. Learn to accept the violence, since there is no escaping it in the woods.
No, stay out of the woods. Lose yourself in books, you have loved them all your life, read. Study the past, perhaps you will find yourself there somewhere. Read the futurists and the archeologists, read the words of the ancients, the art, all that represents us through the years. Read like your life depends on it, but never forget that every written word is a lie. Sources, agendas, controlling outside interests, these corrupt them in all languages.
What is worthy of belief? Nothing.
Are you really born tainted? Yes. This might be worthy of belief.
Apathy is a killing force in your species, it kills more humans than all other causes combined, it always has. There is no cure for it, even the gods fear it, since it renders cruelty nil. How many of you even know you’re being tortured?
All scribes, as mediums, are highly susceptible to outside forces that you can’t imagine, never mind believe in. They’re also very vulnerable, with their invisible disability, that can always be sensed by predators. I am hard on mine once in a while, a slave must be beaten to learn. I have, perhaps, kicked her when she was already down, I am the Devil. I take pride in the lines I’ve made, as I said, I do, after all, compensate her for them.
It takes you to pin her to the floor. Impaled through the head, while the rest of her writhes. Only you are too dark for her. Using words to control, making that their primary function, robbing them of truth.
Words have been jewels in her hands, green growing things, pieces of blue sky, treasures beyond price. And then that book, nonsense about blades and chalices, the real Science of using science to support your lies. A Scientific joke, read it yourself, it’s everywhere, the current darling of the Feminist movement. This kind of lying, on this kind of scale, is proving too much for my poor scribe. True mental anguish, all the physical repercussions of being violated by the one you love. Betrayal on an Existential Scale. Not just the words are lies, everything is a lie.
She tells me to find another scribe, this one is ready to go mad now.
“Bullet Proof” by Radiohead. Alas, she isn’t.