Hotel 2 “Write Something Scary”
I was told to write something scary.
If I do that, It will let me live.
The sun didn't rise today.
It hasn't risen for many days.
The room is dark, except light
from the outside.
And I feel It breathing.
It is close enough to touch.
I know what It skin feels like.
It found out first,
When I was sleeping.
I haven't slept in days.
I wonder how much of It is it,
and how much of It is me.
I was told me to write something scary.
It wants me to die.
Every time I hear that raspy cough coming from the other room, a little part of me is cut off, unfettered, and escapes into the void. It is the sort of sound that for others would hold so little significance, but for me it is the sort of sound that is likely to drive me to madness if I hadn't gotten good at growing new skin.
A part leaves, is carved off, and what remains is a living model of self care and resiliency. But that is only because the work I do is necessary, and without it the function of my world would fall away, leaving me with little to my name.
And I am better now.
Because in the past I heard those sounds, night after night, year after year.
And in the end what was left was a cinder.
And it took so very very long to get the fire going again.
Once it died.
I adore the way this is coming together. It is so much more than I expected. I have been trying for years to write something good. Something worth reading. And here it is, this special thing that should sound like ramblings to anyone in the know. But this is just where It hides. This is just where an idea has been born.
A plan has been hatched.
Though it all came about a long time ago.
Every part of this feels different, every word thriving and growing into something larger than I ever would have imagined.
There is something in here. I am losing control of it. I wanted to make something special, but that was only part of what was asked. It gave me something to put in the substances of the words. It told me to pull it back, and to slip the thing just underneath the lines for you to see.
It must do this, as there is need to see this world brought low
For being so very unremarkable.
I see the thing taking shape, each line falling nicely into place, even if everything I write seems terribly disconnected. The ideas are there, willing themselves into life. They are weaving and following the 'afterwords,' the 'to be continued,' the 'see you again next week.' There are thoughts and idea, and if the world is to know those ideas, I will have to bring those things forward for all to see.
I wish I was better at it, at focusing on the hows and the why's and letting myself feel just a little bit unique and different after so much time trying to pretend that I am something else.
Someone special.
Of the Rites and Figures
Oh dear and mercilful god
see me falling, and catch me now.
There are ways in which we both
may know life, both know what is
living. Both know love.
It is down below, with all the other
sick people.
We have made a mockery of your world,
drawn it close to the edges of oblivion
well before you intended it to pass.
I offer you this mercy of my own so that
you may know what it feels like to be
bound into the flesh.
We both will benefit, but you will rule.
The world will die, as all that must be
becomes what has already been, and
everything that could have been
becomes something that hasn't
and never will be.
(The Holy Realm of the Luminant Figure 1-7(9))
Those who read this. You don't get to go further than this without knowing what it is that you shall be bringing with you. What has already been promised.
Into this space you bring all your joy.
Into all of this I will have you bring all your despair.
Without that, you have nothing of value to offer.
Lay prostrate upon the ground, your eyes closed as you begin to see My light. You want to believe that there is a lot to go before things start to be impossible for you. You have wondered these things before, though they were contained in another form. No matter where you go and what it is you choose to remember, know that all that I am is so much greater than the sum total of what you think of as real.
What I know is what was,
is,
and can be.
And so it is with great displeasure that I look upon this world you call our own
when really it all is mine.
I wonder how it has turned out. I wanted it to be something special, and I wanted it to be scary, and I cannot say for sure if I have been scary. But I do know that I can still feel It sitting next to me, lingering upon every word with glassy, empty eyes. It looks upon this sentence, and It smiles wickedly. For It has seen something it wanted.
It wanted me to talk about It, and all Its many forms.
The ways It can be, and the ways
It never should have been allowed to have been.
Gods don't create the beings that challenge them.
That is how the story goes at least.
But with time, anything is possible.
When you find It within the rows.
In every passage and every word, My luminant way is read and made real, and the glory of which I bring shall be remembered forever. And when that being brings day to night, then at last the sounds will tell, that the passage of the veil must go to the next page. And upon that page shall the word of the salient Apocalypse fall across it, to make note of the end of the world.
And when that happens the light will be fading.
And so it falls upon the final day of light, as the night settles in for the last time.
And in all of this, in the end as in the beginning
There will be the light.
It wanted me to write something scary.
Its eyes can never rest.
It sees without speaking.
Thus the color of the bell will emanate with light.
And that which is brought anew...
Will be blinded by the night.
The starless sky
And the darkening of the moon.
