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There were times where death made me flinch. And when I say death, I do not mean the action of dying, but rather the pain invoked from that which inflicts it. From the precious moments starting from impact, and ending with the beating of the heart. It was the thought – and likely the fear – which made that awful sensation travel up my spine.

This was why I enjoyed watching him kill. The way he dispatched his enemies: like some kind of God sent from heaven -- and honestly, I would not have been surprised if he was. He looked it, his body defined and his stature perfect in both immensity and grace. Every move was planned, every action choreographed, and each breath was taken in to be used as fuel for his next dispatchel of life.

“Tell me! How many have you killed? Or have you lost count?”

He did not look over to meet my gaze, nor did his face react to my question. It wasn't until his lips moved, tastefully belated by his stoicism, that I realized he even still lived.

“I could not have counted had I tried.”

Shocking. I was in pure mysticism! It was how I found all that he was and all that he did... He was truly magnificent!

“And, tell me this...! Can I watch you, as you dispatch the coming troop? May I observe your art, to which I admit I am no match, for you have clearly perfected it, over countless years, with countless deaths?”

“I would hardly stop you.”

“Excellent!” I could not contain my excitement.

“But do not get in my way. I will not kill you if it can be avoided, but as you know, my survival is paramount.”

“Naturally! I would dream of nothing else but the words you grant me now... But I implore you! You must focus! They approach! Show me, and show them, and especially, I beg of you, show this miserable God to whom has given birth to us what true divinity is!

“Do not be silly-”

-An enemy swooped down from the trees above, like an eagle from the skies, slashing at the visage of where He once stood. In less than a second, this body that which once carried in it the vision of a man, and the dreams of a culture, was propelled into the trees, the neck broken and the skull cracked; his death, at least to my, humble eyes, immediate.

“My focus does not wane. My vision does not linger. And my heart does not stop. All else is irrelevant, and it is this philosophy, put forth in its purest form, that allows me – a child of this plague you speak of – to leave his mortal reins behind, to rather than be a beast of burden, an inconceivable cog in the grand scope: to take flight. And in this flight I have become more than a cog, but an appendage, wrest for the creation and the destruction of life, to represent and embody all that your miserable God is. Now watch, as everything that opposes me is, as you put it, dispatched.”

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I think the smell of BO can be kinda nice if you generate it in the throes of making love. It's a lot better that way than when it is from yard work, or roofing or something. But I will admit it can be nice from other things too, especially yard work. Whereas you can formulate a lot of these really elaborate scenarios and shit that just seem natural and inspired, and they fill you with that crisp feeling of being "awake." Like coming back from a great acid trip that lasts through a cold night, and into a chilly day.

You know, when you can see the fog, and you don't care much about what you're doing, or what you're thinking. The details don't matter. There is simply fresh air for the first time, like surfacing from some kind of lake -- leaving that "blanket feeling" that moderners call anxiety.
But it was that smell that made me want her more, even though it would have turned most people off. It wasn't that she was unwashed, but that the day had been long, and we had been kissing for awhile, though I didn't know how long. She was just in some panties, didn't even have a bra on. I was in some boxers but they weren't doing much; you could see my erection coming through the hole in the front, and she was not shy to look at it.

What I preferred to her unique brand of involved sweat smell was the tangy sweet aroma coming from between her legs. Her panties were pretty wet, and just then I went in for a kiss, but we had been doing it so long I felt I had to mix things up. I lightly bit down on her lower lip, and I could feel the panties getting wetter as I pressed them against her clit.

I pressed my chest against hers, and felt her press back. I bit down on her neck, enough to make her flinch, but not enough to cause real pain. I just wanted to overwhelm her, though the level of whelming seemed very reasonable.

I slid down and slipped the panties off. Ended up going Danny Brown on that pussy and had her twitching like a cockroach on raid. You know, some of that hipster thug shit that gets the bruisers woo'in and shit. Some kind of next level fantasy where the numbness travels around your body like the magic school bus, or some shit.

She was pleased. Looked like she damn pissed the bed, but I admit I stole that from Danny Brown too, the song "Peaches." She had really nice tits. I remember going back down on them, letting my lips press against them real nice, and my tongue, my tongue was not shy, not as shy as it usually is.
Ramblings of a Fiend
I wrote this while high on a research chemical called 3-meo-pcp.
He has grown restless. The way his ears cock back and his eyes widen. The unearthly stance and low bow of the head. To think Theodore too, would grow weary of me. With him it seemed as if I always had one connection, a connection to a life that is not my own -- at least no longer. Though, I can't carry blame for my companion; I would also be weary of one such as myself.

I have grown so mad as to make even my pet feel fear in my presence, yet I have not grown so mad so that I do not recognize my own madness -- or maybe it is possible I have. That these thoughts that I have are merely a ruse, so that I may convince myself that I am in the right, and therefore I may continue on my path. So I can once again see that place.

How paranoid. Drinking is such a burden to me these days. It tantalizes the body but leaves the spirit waning... Ironic, if you ask me.

- the sound of trees caught in the wind outside fills the empty manor with a dull resonance. There is a thump from the next room over.

Sigh! It seems the window, is once again, open. Sigh! What a dreary, dreary,  sullen life I live. To walk back and forth, room to room, tormented by everything, and miserable from nothing... though, I suppose it does rather resemble my condition.

Now, I shall close this window, I shall put the frame sporting no more than dust back upon this table, and I shall leave this room to resume my pondering. And if there is any hope in this world, I shall return to do this all again, and again and again; until tomorrow is today and I am a skeleton, complaining about the grinding in the joints I will not feel, speaking with  the voice I will not have, and suffering with the mind that is long dead. Somethings never change, I suppose.

But to gaze upon the bushes and trees in the moonlight like this. There came a point in my life where nature left my interests, and merely became a challenge to overcome. Yet, lately, I can again stand before immensity not greater, but equivalent to myself, and I can bask in its glory, and I can feel its cold, isolated terror flow through my veins.

Deep in those vines they live, from another dimension. I have only seen two of them, and each was on a seperate occasion.

Unlike any other beings I have witnessed, they had edges more haunting than their surfaces. The way their "flesh" overlapped and moved, vines wrapped around vines, concealing a mass that may or may not have been there. Their eyes glowed brighter than I have ever seen something glow, and yet they were by no means an affront to mine. The brightness seemed sharper than any visual stimulus I had before perceived; for this was no "visual stimulus" and was rather an epiphany, presumably one of a "spiritual" nature.

They did not walk, they did not speak, and they certainly felt no love. These beings danced; and with a fervor that rivaled any human display I have before bore witness. It was the natural state of their being -- primality and lust. And what they lusted for, quite clearly it seemed, was me.

Despite my self-acclaimed reputation for being concise, I must submit, for I do not know for what purpose I was wanted, nor in what way. Whether my flesh was their goal, or my soul was which they coveted; all I know is they had their eyes fixed upon my being, and they danced and slid across the ground in unearthly ways, faster than I could run.

One was red, a dark shade that could easily be mistaken for a light one. He was adorned in leaves of green, all placed in unconventional ways and forms. The adornments were unconventional, and contradicting to the details is my lack of confidence as to whether or not they were truly there. The natural state of such epiphanies, it seems: as fleeting as they are happening.

The next beast was much larger. He had to have been at least twelve feet in height, versus the priors seven. His flesh seemed less vine like, and more of a heavily jaundiced slab of frozen mustard. Though, I could tell they were of similar nit. This one was wider. His upper body was long, a jaw that was nearly just as large, with teeth that were bared. His legs were tall and skinny compared to the rest of the body, though they were still much larger than mine.

I saw them for only moments, dancing in the field of vision between sight and object. In the hazy static that is so often transparent, but oft blesses us with images of both grandeur and horror. Yet, they seemed real. As if they had taken a step beyond this film and entered our plane, even if only for a few, precious moments. And in those moments, like machines upon life, they saw me; they came forward and I felt their intention in my spirit; a warmth that traveled throughout my body, from my eyes to my ankles; mangled beasts slithered upon me.

I still shudder in fear, but my chest becomes erect with wonder at their peculiarities. The glow from their eyes was not simply primal, but humbling, confusing, and existentially dreadful. Though, until then, I had believed -- not consciously, I might add -- that I had experienced all that there was to be experienced. Maybe I could experience the same emotions to various degrees, to higher pleasures and platitudes, both good and bad, but I am the type who becomes bored easily, and experiencing the same emotions is a dreary thought indeed.

Yet these beasts filled me with something different. An emotion of inherent awe and ignorance with no conditions or speculations. It was distinctly a yellow color, though I suspect it could take on different forms. It was also of an alien nature, a foreign abnormality that would make even space fill up at the thought -- though I possibly do not give space the credit it deserves.

-there was a loud crack from the next room over. The wind outside had grown abrasive and the trees swayed aggressively, threatening to topple upon each other.

... How strange.

It seems that window...

A smarter man would quickly barricade the door, trapping whatever madness there truly is inside. Yet, I can't help but creep toward this room. How familiar the feeling in my body is. The raw, almost painful sting of violation. To know my grounds, the one place that I may call home, has been desanctified, to know that I am vulnerable... Unless I am exaggerating. And in all likeliness I am. There is almost for sure a good explanation for my window's over activity. Yet, I cannot shake the trouble, the knowing that I am unable to even speculate this "explanation."

Of course, there is the unmentioned detail. The critical piece of the puzzle that makes my struggle the undertaking that it is. And it is that my window did not begin to act so haphazardly until after I had witnessed those aforementioned beasts through it's open frame. And now, every morning, I wake to find it open; and even now, it opens with a slam as I am awake!


Yet, here I am outside this door. Fiddling with the thoughts of what lies beyond. How is it possible that my hand is on this knob? That I will present myself to these horribly human-like... systems? Hmpf! As if I can run. That would be an even bolder presumption; and if it is indeed these beasts that are doing this to me, then running will serve me nothing.

Like many before me, I embrace the nature of the beings so below me, and I run foolhardily into death's embrace. Who am I to deny the natural way of things? Who am I to flee the chilling touch of hell's flame? To claim that there is any difference between man and demon, hell and earth, and to think heaven is of its own accord?

The room is empty, it seems. No more than books and and a table, a lamp with no bulb, and a frame with no picture. But the window, as I suspected, has again been thrown open. Again, I will close you, and I pray, in more ways than one, that I never again have to return to this room, even though I know such a wish will never be granted.

Now, I shall return to my study, and I shall further ponder the nature of things... Or shall I? It seems that whatever perfectly reasonable explanation there may be for this window opening has become increasingly valid over time, in that it may not take long at all for it to happen again. If I were to stay, I might be blessed - or cursed -- in that I may discover the cause.
And it is with this invitation that I again feel child-like. That I see the world from eyes that are young, and that my flesh can again tingle from the darkness around me. My imagination can again run unchecked by the weariness of age. With each cascade of wind outside of my manor, there seems a toxic cloud that washes over the brush before me.

Is it in the wind, whispering through the trees? Is it the haze that seems to rise from the ground into the air? Or is it in this mental fog where I feel them calling me? Singing their wordless song, dancing their dramatic steps, encroaching in hellish forms unseen before now?

What is this feeling in my heart? In my limbs, in my lungs? What manner of terror is it I now feel? Yet I do not flee, nor do I cry. I merely watch at the window, waiting for those eyes to appear, ready for them to take me. I have entered a trance, and soon I will dance like these beasts; though, I fear I will not dance beside them, but beneath them -- as if either is better than the other, or to say anything is better than anything else.

For years I have suffocated in the sea of souls, and it seems no matter what I do or what happens in my life, no matter how long I may resurface and find precious air, I am never gifted with the image of land. It seems at my most lucid moments I find the truest horrors of reality. I find the nihilistic tones of space's symphony that echo about my head. Setting the beat for the beasts of night, and of the day, and of the next world.

Do they strive there? Do they live in this endless of ocean of confusion and disorientation? Have they grown so wise as to not ask questions, and rather embrace the power in which they have? Have they ever asked questions, or were they subdued from conception?

I've had images of their plane. Empty red sand, with long winding rivers of lava. Dreary landscapes with nothing more than hills and volcanoes to decorate its frigid keeps. And them. The beasts of varying design and horror dancing upon its loose, trodden surface. Weaving themselves in and out of the fabric of time, going between verse and verse, dimension and dimension, plane and plane. Like all things, they seek to assimilate, to feed, and to exist.

Though maybe my thoughts have grown too refined. Too black and white. To claim I understand even the human condition -- of which I am -- is a confidence that I deny; to claim I understand this demon condition -- that of which I am not -- is nothing short of an absurdity.

Yet, I do not deny communion with them. And even now, though my eyes remain static upon the weaving trees, hands sitting upon the window sill, I feel their presence, waves that vibrate throughout reality and burrow into my flesh. There is elevation in thought, and elation in emotion.

I feel terror as my fingers glide back and forth across the bottom of the window. At no point does the misery those woods contain allure me, and at no moment do I thirst for the pulsating vastness contained between the trees, bushes, and leaves. Yet my hands dance upon this surface, like the devil before his fires, and the fires before its victims.

For many years I have pondered it, is being a victim to flames the fate it is made out to be? Is this descent into madness true depravity, or is it a divinity of itself? People see yes, and people see no. They refuse to acknowledge, not the things they don't understand, but rather the things that make them sweat.

But I am no man. I am a pig. A pig who craves the sickening allure of the breeze, who breathes the ash hanging loosely in the air. I am a beast with flesh of vines and eyes that glow brighter than the sun.

Yes, there is fear. A cold hand that reaches up from my belly and crushes my heart, making the ooze leak out through the eyes; a dark hole that grows and feeds upon the beams of mind that keep my flesh steady. But for all things good and bad, they manifest. They are as real as they are a state of mind, and it is for that reason they are oft misunderstood.

But I understand them, as much as one such as myself is capable. And I know they only hinder what I truly am. I have become a moment of pure focus. Elevation of perspective to where the troubles and hindrances of life are but a fool's fate. To taste, even for a moment, the light sting upon my forehead, to see godliness that betrays even the divine; a destructive force that destroys all presumptions, all purpose, all misery, and all hope; a spear that rips throughout the heavens and bisects the heart of nihilism itself.

It is in oneness that the past does not matter, that future does not matter, and with them, nor does the maintenance of this state. A state that casts a blanket of meaninglessness over all that is not base and logic. The humblest of stares from the most disinterested of eyes. The absolute understanding that death does not, and cannot matter, and with that there comes the conclusion that life does not matter either. Killing serves no purpose but to kill the meaningless, and loving serves no purpose but to soothe the dying.

I must leave this window, leave this manor, and I must not wait. I have grown weary of the walls around me. Bored with the shadows cast. My chains are rusty from years of fighting, and with rivers of blood down my body, I feel them giving way. What I once thought was gazing upon the sun and its light, I now realize is just a witch with less time to cast mistruths. Shadows themselves are lies, the byproduct of what I truly seek.

I do not know if these beasts intended for me to see them, if my mind created them merely as a simple, yet magnificent allegory for awakening, if they were merely hunting me but were ripped out of our plane before they could consume me; regardless, they have come. I have gazed upon them, and deep in my spirit they planted what would grow into vines. And these vines would constrict me until I would walk with them in the fetid fields.

It does not matter now if they are good or bad. It does not matter if I will be devoured. It does not matter if my life and soul will be destroyed -- or be subject to some worse fate. It does not matter if God has tested me, and I have failed. Because after tasting their force, I know that no matter what fear and terror may consume me in that endless plague, I must relish. And I must seek.

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elohcin111 Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Welcome to :iconwriters4life::hug: If you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask myself or refer to the group page.
One thing I like to say to new members (in case they didn't read the new member info on our page) is that all submissions sent to us throughout the week will be sent out on Mondays and Thursdays -so if you submit some work and it isn't sent out right away, no worries it will be. Other than than that enjoy being in the group and happy reading and writing.

-elohcin111 (Founder of Writers4Life)
DylanSeto Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2015  Student Artist

Just wanted to thank you for the fave!

Also, since I'm currently focusing on music, I was wondering if you'd be interested in listening/sharing my music?

If you are, I can link you to where you can find that stuff!

-Dylan Seto
OmoMeowth Featured By Owner Jan 6, 2016
I listened to some of the music on your soundcloud. It sounds like you have a lot of potential in creating artistic music. I will admit you put this thought into my head while I was scrolling through your latest journal post, but you have a style very similar to 808's and Heartbreak, with more of an indie vibe versus traditional hip-hop. You do seem to have an active grasp of the somber elements that make 808's what it is, however.

In an attempt to provide critique, I will say some of your tracks are too consistent. Or rather, they lack punchy-ness, for the lack of better words. In other words (hopefully better ones this time lol), you have good motifs and riffs, but tie them together in ways that aren't interesting at a professional level, nor do you have the same variety that is seen in high level artistic expression, as in using a multitude of these motifs and riffs in each track.

Though, take that with a grain of salt, as I am just providing input as a listener, versus a creator.
DylanSeto Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2016  Student Artist
Thanks for the critique!

I more or less agree -- it's something that I've noticed as well. I feel like a lot of the stuff I have up right now are kind of mechanical in nature, and it's something I'm trying to go against in the stuff I have stuffed away.
neokasey82 Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2014  Student Digital Artist
Thanks for the :+devwatch: ~ :aww:

~ Shade :blackrose:
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