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The sky so vast, a person could get lost within it and the last raindrops of a passing storm missed as deeply as a lover. Perhaps once, they didn't exist at all and, in their place, emptiness. I have known those empty places and found they were not empty at all. I was simply too early, and all the things I wished for, had not yet arrived.
Time is forever and we are so fleeting. Some, far less. In this vastness, emptiness is not the tormentor, time itself is. And all of those lost moments will remain forever unspoken while waiting to simply feel.
Each season brings anew, for good or bad, and all that matters is the strength to travel this earth, and it's time.
A flower will not grow no matter how many tears fall upon it, yet in time it will flourish, and sitting by its side waiting for it to arrive, is I feel so much better than losing oneself to the cruelty of time, and all hope within it.
For you, to see time as I do, and seasons, as I do, for the anticipation of what can be, I wish these things to be.
For I see heaven all around me, I see hell as clear and walking through time has become timeless, and all things seem suspended within it and I see all of it. The distant past was a moment ago, and I feel it, all of it, every year, every decade, every moment, held, in timelessness. It's heart-wrenching and yet it's the most beautiful thing I have ever felt, could ever feel. Could ever, see. This isn't Satan, this isn't hell, this is heaven, and my journey towards it, and when I reach it, will I know the difference between my life here and now, and there, for all things seem the same to me. All eternity is spent looking over a landscape and feeling the loss of things gone and waiting for new things to arrive. I feel everything. And its beauty is almost intolerable.
It's being held on the brink of a new birth, forever.
I'm comfortable with Satan. I can be myself. I don't have to strive to be sinless. I have a kind heart, but I'm not sinless. I strive to be, but I fail.
Despite wanting to be bathed in God's light and be flawless, I am so comfortable cavorting with demons.
In a way, I feel like hell is my true home and heaven is someplace I can never be, because I belong down below.
This blog is about Satan. Not my conflicted thoughts.
Satan's love known to me before mother of womb, before father of seed, before own self awareness.
From child of cot, my first conscious thought was the image of You buried deep within mind.
Your name known to me before face of my parents or spoken first word. Your name within mind, before milk of the breast, before light within eyes, before sunlight on face, before words within ears of jew Lord born of man.
Before eyes tried to open and focus on life, You spoke of true agony, found in human form, of blindness through minds held in God's angry storm, of souls blunted and shackled through dust on this Earth, of hollow awareness through wretched life's birth.
You gave terrible vision of humanity's final day, lost from existence, removed from a universe barren of life, extinguished through time and fading subsistence.
You gave a deep insight, a thirst for true knowledge, filling my mind with the truth of men's plight.
Fallen Angel I heard You, from the oldest of thoughts to this current day, through years of confusion of needing my faith both in You and my Lord, though I heeded your warning of iron and clay.
You told me of waste, of time within life, each second, its loss, within man's frail mind, of past life within memory not held within truth yet tainted with glamour of unstable thought.
You told me of years to be wasted through youth, in seeking the Lord, hiding man from his truth, all lost to a search of God's wells dried and arid, his journey foretold by You fallen Angel, true knowledge not held on this Earth's barren lands, true consciousness formed within men's hidden plane not gifted to minds still cursed with jew's blame.
All came to pass, my lost fallen Angel. I look back on Your words, on your truth, on Your honesty. I accept my existence in fulfilling your prophecy.
Son of perdition.
Prince of the power of the air. The ruler of this world.
All titles deserved, given by those who won't share Your true Name, far worse than imagined, far worse that Cruel Hunter, abasement of the Earth, Your cesspit forever, fury and hatred is Yours evermore, promised by Him to your lasting annulment, roaming this Earth in place of stripped sacrament, taking their God in vain through lost ages, obscuring their motive of building third temple, confusing man's mind with delusive mentation of leading to conflict from lowest of neighbors to greatest of leaders all lost in contention leading to wars most seeded upon your whispered false quarrel.
My pain is of Yours fallen Angel.
I feel You in every cell, every heartbeat, every thought, every breath.
I see Your weakness. I see through Your eyes, it's not Your hand offered, but mine, my love of you, my faith in you, my mind in you, always, in you.
You have me, in heart, in soul, in mind, my loyalty, my truth, is Yours.
----------
Lucifer TV series. Cracking show. Great song.
(This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.)
Perhaps if I was offered a banquet of blood wrapped in the sweetest of things, I'd indulge myself fully.
Unless I was abstaining.
Which in this wonderfully vampiric world may happen. And before I paid a visit to Red Riding Blood, I was six years clean.
Those around me, my kin, my clan, my fellow vampires, have already fallen. The kind of creatures that could bring you to your knees simply by staring. Through orgasm. Or terror. Or both. Depending on their moods. Inside, they're like the dustbins of life, and every dirty little dark desire you hold they cover in sticky glue and throw at you.
And as in the case of most life-altering things that happen to a vampire, they almost always start off as a small, inconsequential little thing. A kiss on the cheek, a handshake, a welcome back into the fold of the clan after an extended departure, slowly ever so slowly drawing you back in, like a fish on a hook.
The slightest movement of a stocking knee due to a skirt slightly adrift. An incredible perfume freshly glistening on the flawless skin of a slender neck surrounded by chestnut brown tousled hair accompanied by the barest hint of cleavage slightly pushing against her blouse backed up with its superhuman wingman — the perfume. Her lips were equally dark, plump and pouty. These demons are artists at an attraction. And just like having one or two drinks at a party, my abstinence felt itself slipping.
Perhaps there was still a small thread of humanity left in me there, right until the naughty yet willing blood donor, I'll call her Red Riding Blood, tipped me over the edge. And it was never a long edge to reach. And then every sensation I'd ever felt, fused together into a humming, overpowering machine that just sucked me right in, and I knew, as a drowning man so far from shore, it was simply better to just let go.
Red willed, Red loves, and I fell.
Six years. Six ... years of abstaining while refusing to admit I was continually ripping my own heart in denial!
I felt I'd reached the very top of that God's Snakes & Ladders board. I'd spent an eternity tumbling down and believed I'd never fall down again. And when I did, when Red Riding Blood made sure I did, the monster inside me, the monster I truly believed had left me, made me realise it was only sleeping and when it awoke, it was uncontrollably ravenous, a glutton, it wouldn't have cared if it had burst before being satiated as long as it could plunge as deep down as it possibly could sucking up every last atom it needed. It went beyond being satiated, it became the living embodiment of the act itself; it lived only to feed. There was only the feed. Nothing else existed. And Red Riding Blood made sure I took every last drop.
-
(This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.)
Beloved, you took my mind and its thoughts and its hopes and its faith, and gave in its place knowledge and belief in sacrifice, your sacrifice, in believing in a man where I once stood a child, pleading with you to understand, that what you asked for, what you wished for, was not within me to give, pleading with you to leave me in blindness, pleading with you to leave me in ignorance and pleading with you to leave me with my fear of you, to leave me with my needs and my dreams unfulfilled in the knowledge that I would never be lost to myself or my God and be free of the truth of your love in my heart that I’m no longer whole without you, I no longer exist without you, the world for me dies without you, I, fear you. My fear is the truth that I knew your love would destroy, overwhelm and abase me, before God, before family and friends, and I feared more than all, I feared I would no longer care.
My ignorant mind could not see your patience. My ignorant mind could not understand your untold forgiveness, love and compassion, my ignorant mind could not understand that you were waiting for me, waiting for me to become the person you had known all along, lived inside me, and the person inside of me, the person you waited for so long to meet, the person you waited for so long to love, he found you, he knew you, and he knew his existence came from the faith and belief found inside of you, and he knew his existence came from every shared need and desire that led deeper and deeper into your heart, deeper and deeper into the truth of your words that part of his soul, lived inside you.
You dared me to believe, you dared me to imagine, you dared me to see a world beyond the shackles of my own doubt and that everything I had craved, everything I had ever dared to imagine, was there all along, waiting for me through accepting your gift of far more than a love lost to life’s shallow promise, you taught me to see, to truly see, more clearly with my own heart than with my own eyes and beyond the smothering limits of my own stifled perception and awakened within me more than awareness of the life that surrounds me, you gave me the strength that had lived inside of me all along, you gave me beauty, you gave me my very soul, you completed me, you, made me.
You are my crucible, you gave me one single defining moment in time to exist and believe in more than myself, you taught me that sacrifice cannot be asked for, willed or be taken, you taught me that sacrifice is born in the heart and lives in the faith of a man’s need to love, more than himself, of a need to believe in, more than himself, of a man’s need to see, so much more than himself, you taught me that one defining moment isn't culmination, but beginning, of all I had dared to believe in. Existing, beyond eyes that had blinded me, existing beyond ears that had deafened me, existing beyond a mind that had held and imprisoned me. You gave me life and taught me the truth of reality, reality is a whisper, your whisper, placing more faith in my heart than any prophet of God or man's faltered religion. Reality is a world full of beauty that I can no longer see without you by my side, reality is found in one single tear that spills from your eyes on seeing its need of destroying my heart or strengthening it beyond care of my own life or existence. Reality is knowing that you are the strength in every moment of my life when I needed more than I could find within myself, YOU ARE MY REALITY . You are more than my life, you are life to me and I dare to believe infinity exists and I dare to believe forever is ours because I cannot bear the thought of being without you, it hurts too much. You have taken every emotion within me and enhanced it beyond all I imagined I could ever feel, you have taught me of reality, the reality of knowing that I cannot sustain a life on my own when you die, you, made me, and I will forever be part of you.
You gave me everything needed to live this life yet refused me the most important gift of all, of how to live without you and left in its place the meaning of fear, the fear of living every moment of every single day, believing that one day we will be parted. I see you each night in my dreams, dying in my arms and I can’t save you. I can’t stop you from fading away, and I’m left in that dreamworld alone, and it will not let me die. It keeps me imprisoned night after night and I cannot escape, and it won’t let me follow you and each night is a lifetime spent looking for you until I awake. I have watched you die a thousand times in this way, felt, and lived through, every single second of that pain of losing you, and I remember, every single second of that pain on waking beside you, not able to look at your sleeping form, not able to believe that my dream was not real and that you still exist on this earth next to me. Yet my heart knows only the truth, for it still feels your love, it still calls out to you, and it still tells me, that you answer. And each time I’m left feeling that I’ve been given another lifetime with you, and I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes with you in this way, with you by my side, and it’s still not enough. I cannot be without you. I will not be without you. You’ve heard my every cry, you’ve felt my every tear, you’ve held me and comforted me and told me my dreams that capture my fear are false yet I bare this truth, your true death cannot hurt me, for my dreams cannot see, that your last breath, will also be mine.
(This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.)
This blog is about a girl called Ellie. It was her nickname and one I never understood. She gave it to herself for batshit reasons, and I'd rather use that than add her real name to this blog.
One evening, I'd bought a Chinese takeaway and took it to her home. I went into her kitchen and put the food on a plate. Sweet and sour chicken, and egg-fried rice. And because I hadn't put the chicken on top of the rice and placed it at the side instead, she took the plate from me, threw it on the table and walked off crying, after screaming at me.
That was pretty much Ellie’s standard behaviour when upset.
Anyway, Ellie, my pretty-yet-angry girlfriend, kept one of her feet planted firmly inside my vampirisms — to keep me around — while refusing to step in completely, keeping me in perpetual limbo.
I had the time and the patience to allow, yet it was deeply frustrating and, in the meantime, she lived her life without giving thoughts to my own needs.
In the years we knew each other, I was only able to bite her once and if I was bitter about it, I'd say she wasn't that tasty. Her blood was thin, not unpleasant, okay, yeah, it was unpleasant, it was a cup of tea without a teabag, something missing, something missing for me, no connection, no connection for me, no connection to me.
I suppose it didn't help that she was a Jehovah's witness. Despite that, we had our fun, we had our nights, she was all for drinking my blood, all for it, any opportunity she'd be on me. Real unbalanced relationship. I allowed it. Drinking me was her thing, her party piece, the one thing she felt utterly comfortable doing. She took to it instantly and without question. I didn't need to ask, I didn't need to coax. Her idea, right from the get-go and with a smile on her face. She took to drinking with me as people take to breathing air. It just happened without a thought, she was at me all the time while refusing me a drop of hers.
To put things in perspective, we're not talking fangs. We're talking syringes and blood-letting.
And my time with Ellie, during the years I knew her, her life, to an extent, became mine too. As mentioned, she was and still is to this day, a Jehovah's Witness. And in the past, that caused some unpleasant problems and issues for me, which came about because I spoke openly about my 'vampirisms' to her friends and fellow Jehovah's Witnesses.
I was nice, I was caring, I was kind, loving, warm, yet the Jehovah's Witnesses, not so much. I tried. I started attending their 'Kingdom Hall', their own version of Christ's church because Ellie asked me to. I was pleasant. No one liked me. Nobody. I stopped attending. The Jehovah's Witnesses, close friends of Ellie, it wasn't enough that I stopped attending their Hall, they had decided that Ellie and I must be separated. As if it was any of their businesses, but they certainly had decided to make it so.
One evening, Ellie told me that the two of the Jehovah's Witness elders, yes, they really refer to themselves in those terms, were to meet with her at her home to discuss her leaving me.
A few days later, after that meeting, I went to Ellie’s home. And she told me what had happened.
Ellie was, is, a very expressive woman, very intelligent and a great conversationalist and gave me chapter and verse about what went on at that meeting, and basically she told the elders to fuck off and that she'd leave them before leaving me. Her loyalty to me, was, is, one of the highlights of my life. It's just how I feel about it.
The elders had told Ellie that if she didn't leave me she'd need to leave the Kingdom Hall and when she refused, they backed down completely.
I was so surprised, I'd no idea she felt that strongly about our connection. I mean we were hardly a couple, and I'd stopped calling what we shared a relationship due to her often unpleasant behaviour towards me. I simply hung out with her several times a week.
Time moved on. Our routine was that I'd pick Ellie up in my car from the Kingdom Hall during their midweek meetings. I'd sit in my car, something until 9:00pm, waiting for her to come out of the hall, and I'd see the people who shunned me, leaving their meeting, walking past my car and ignoring me.
One of the ladies, ginger hair who was one of the elders who'd visited Ellie when trying to get her to leave me, actually liked to sneer at me through my windscreen. And I don't mean a sexual sneer, the playful type sneer, I mean the hateful type sneer. I never responded, which made her hate me more, I think. She had daughters, and she'd herd them away from my car parked on the kerb outside the Hall like I was some kind of devil. OK, fair play, but fuck you lady, you made me feel upset for no reason.
What a fucking twisted time I had with Ellie, fucking weird looking back, she screwed me over really, a user, she took my blood countless times, barely gave me a drop of hers. And my wife? Did she know Ellie? Oh yes, they were close of sorts, practically family at one point over several years.
But time moved on and one evening, utterly out of the blue, Ellie exploded on me and I didn't see it coming. She told me she'd had enough and wanted something else. She'd found a man, a Jehovah’s Witness. I'll call him Alan, and within weeks they were a couple, and I remained Ellie’s 'friend.'
I also tried to make friends with Alan. He was wary, but we kind of got onto an amicable level where we were able to have stable if tentative conversations with each other.
Alan wasn't from Ellie's Kingdom Hall, which is why he wasn't completely poisoned against me. And Ellie, Alan and myself kind of held a status quo for a while until that night Ellie locked herself in Alan's bathroom crying for my blood.
He hated me after that. He actually screamed down the phone at me that night she locked herself in that bathroom. He was so abusive to me, and said that I was never to contact Ellie again. I quietly listened to him, and quietly agreed to his wishes and that was the last time I ever phoned Alan's home.
Alan didn't know that Ellie had started phoning me on her mobile. I told her to stop, she wouldn't. We carried on 'knowing' each other for a further 10 years after she got together with Alan. After a while he knew. She'd ring me while he was at home, even in the same room. He didn't stop Ellie from seeing me because she told him she would leave him if he tried.
Alan, I always thought was a good person, basically kind, decent, hardworking, nice. I wanted the best for him. I didn't love him. I have loved lots of men in my life, I never loved him. Not exactly liked him, didn't respect him, but I felt kindness to him. I understood. Shitty situation.
Ellie is selfish, always has been, to me, to Alan, to everyone. I don't even think she knows how she affected people. She's not my favourite person in the world despite the years I've known her.
Eventually, Ellie weaned herself off me by choice, which made me feel that all the time I'd spent with her held no value to her then or now. It made me feel hollow. It still does. I have to accept how I feel and manage it. It's not nice to deal with. It'll probably affect me until I die. Just, sadness, despite her past loyalties.
I've looked at her Facebook. She's still with Alan, who isn't really called Alan. I still have her telephone number. We parted on amicable terms, but I really don't want to start the whole thing up all over again.
(This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.)
Usual disclaimers, part fact, part bullshit. It's a disease. A delicious attention seeking disease.
Seven Day Adventists. I'd joined them some years ago.
One of their pastors paid a surprise visit to my home one evening to 'save me'. He spent three hours sitting at my table, and I was too kind to boot him out.
And he came right in the middle of me getting ready to satisfy my bloodlust. I'd been craving all day and Brian (another name change) the pastor, knocked on my door frigging scant minutes before I was ready to jump in and sink into blood. Man I was craving, my eyes were going funny. I was craving so bad I went on a five-mile run to torture myself with the deliciousness before I headed home, so I got an even bigger hit on the blood. I was fucking bleeding in the brain from it, fucking overwhelming monster the craving had built up in my brain like a fucking tsunami and I kept it at bay because I knew how good it'd feel when I fed it.
Yeah, fucking, I got back home and a minute fucking minute later he's at my door, he must have seen me come back in. I couldn't pretend I wasn't home, stupid, too kind, thoughtful. I've learned since to fuck people off no matter what when I need to, but not then.
I don't even remember what he was saying, three fucking hours what was wrong with the man, three fucking hours. Three hours, I knew the time was slipping away from me. It was so bad.
I ended up biting my own tongue and sucking the blood out.
I sat there going mmm mmm mm mm. I remember how he looked at me, but man, he was a steadfast fucker.
Un---fucking----movable and the man was thin as a rake, no sway, nothing. Like a rock. Untouchable. High faith. Unshakable. Not that I wanted to shake him. I did like him. In a way, I kind of loved him a little. He knew that. That's why he tried. We had something, just not the same path. Cared for him x
And when he left, I have to say, he was the biggest cock block I have ever experienced.
He put me right off, fucking, right off, spoiled my entire evening, made me feel so dirty, his thoughts, his face, in my mind, just awful, ruined it. He took something from me that evening, all the bloodlust which I can't describe here without five hours and a billion words. He quashed it he quashed it he did something to me he took something from me he took it. He ruined my bloodlust.
After he left, I tried to indulge for want of a better word. Drinking blood felt like trying to eat shit. I did persevere. Just wasn't in me. I fell asleep on the floor. I didn't even make it to bed. I woke up in the morning staring at a wardrobe feeling like I'd lost the greatest love of my life.
I felt empty, like something had left me.
It didn't stay away long, it came back strong, hard, deeper, harsher, angrier, darker, and blacker. It's mine. It lives within me. I may lock it up. No one else gets to do that ever again.
It taught me that.
My wife refuses all access now to anything JW/7DA related — she isn't very nice to them and I think it's really quite rude of her. She taunts them, through the side gate when they come by. Trips them up within their own words and makes them uncomfortable and sometimes upsets them, which upsets me, because people are just people and my wife has sent people away in tears. It's so wrong.
Oh, The X-Files calls to me each Friday night,
With Scully’s fierce gaze, I imagine her bite,
Replaying those episodes, my favourite show,
Her smile, her eyes, they make my heart glow,
On Blu-ray I watch, time and again,
Her presence so charming, igniting the flame.
Rivalling Wonder Woman, a powerful name,
Linda's fierce, and Scully's the same.
So here's to my crushes, they lift my soul high,
In the world of TV, they help dreams to the sky.
From Gillian to Ian, oh what a delight,
Stars in my heart, like the stars in the night.
At Comic Con, my joy turned into a dream,
I'd booked a meet and greet, and I'd say I was keen.
A simple hello was all that I hoped,
But Gill's warmth and her laughter, pulled me in like a rope.
She got me in close, with her actress finesse,
Eye contact, sweet smiles, pure joy to possess.
Her jokes made me laugh, oh, how sexy she foamed,
She walked into my heart and went for a roam.
So here's to my crushes, they lift my soul high,
In the world of TV, they help dreams to the sky.
From Gillian to Ian, oh what a delight,
Stars in my heart, like the stars in the night.
As I walked away, she touched my hand,
Parting with warmth, more than I planned,
I wished her well, with every word spanned,
That meet and greet, was just fucking grand.
With Ian Somerhalder, memories collide,
Cheek to cheek in our photo, and my heart opened wide,
He smelled like a dream, his charm reached inside,
He knew I was crushing, and stirred up my tide.
So here's to my crushes, they lift my soul high,
In the world of TV, they help dreams to the sky.
From Gillian to Ian, oh what a delight,
Stars in my heart, like the stars in the night.
He smelled so fine, his skin so tanned,
Each moment we shared, just perfectly planned,
Oh lovely Ian, you deepened my crush,
In the glow of your warmth, I simply blushed.
So here's to my crushes, they lift my soul high,
In the world of TV, they help dreams to the sky.
From Gillian to Ian, oh what a delight,
Stars in my heart, like the stars in the night.
Usual disclaimers, part fact, part bullshit. It's a disease. A delicious attention seeking disease.
(This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.)
During certain periods in my life, I have to relearn the world.
I have had to relearn the world, as a child learning awareness of its surroundings in the first years of its life, countless times throughout the decades of my life. This isn't a new thing for me, or an old thing, it's a life thing.
Recently, I had to relearn the world again.
Last week, I ventured out into the daylight after spending some days home behind closed curtains in fear of the light of the sun.
Why in fear?
Sometimes, daylight hurts me. And I mean that. It hurts me physically and emotionally, and I'm going to concentrate on the emotional side of that for now.
We all live in this world, you, and me, and whether human bodies are designed to live and thrive on this Earth, or the Earth itself has been designed to meet your bodies' biological needs, there is an unbreakable bond between you, and your Earth.
Often, that bond between myself and the Earth is broken, and I'm stopped from living as I wish to within it.
The daylight itself becomes my bitter enemy, and while I bear no ill will to it, sometimes daylight makes it very clear that it hates me. It becomes poisonous, bitter, and wishes me nothing but harm.
And that upsets me emotionally deeper than any word I can write.
I was born into daylight. It was the first thing that greeted me. It filled my eyes and my mind with light and for so long it was all I knew.
Daylight was my friend, as it is a friend to most of the people who walk upon the Earth. And in most cases, daylight will never leave your side. From your first breath until your last, no matter what happens in-between, daylight will always be there to greet you from dawn until dusk.
For me, my relationship with daylight is broken, and we have fallen out many times. And when we do, daylight shuns me, and I'm no longer able to walk upon the Earth until the fall of the sun.
My heart doesn't just break, it fucking shatters, and I feel empty in ways I don't want to type because I feel the Earth itself has rejected me.
And those out there, those who understand what I type, you have my deepest sorrow. I bleed for you, I sob for you, I love you. I understand and I care for you. As you care for me.
The days pass slowly when daylight leaves my side. And I know from long and bitter experience how stubborn daylight is to soften and allow my need for it to be fulfilled once again.
In those times, all I have left is darkness. The comforting darkness. And the most dangerous thing about the dark? It's so comforting I could easily turn my back on the daylight for good.
I have no need to work, no need to live within daylight, no need for society. My point is, I don't need daylight to exist.
The darkness is far more consistent than daylight ever was. Darkness, not once, shunned me when I walked back into it after spending time in the daylight.
Darkness welcomes me like a consistent companion. Daylight, is fickle and easy to upset.
One feed, just one. One single drink of blood. One indulgence. One. Just fucking ONE. And daylight leaves me. Fuck you daylight. Fuck you.
Daylight is the most savage companion I have ever known when I've pissed it off. And if it could burn me to ash, as in those wonderful vampiric films, I believe it would try.
Recently, I fed a lot, and like most things I focus on to the exclusion of all else, eventually it tapered off. I was done. Finished. I stopped thinking about it, and lost all interest in it.
And I started looking towards the daylight again, as I always do after satisfying my blood-lust.
Tentatively.
Baby steps.
Eventually, I turned to God. It's always the first step back into the light. I asked for forgiveness while knowing I'd fall again. I believe God knows I'll fall again, yet seemingly and bafflingly endlessly forgiven, I don't understand it. Why, how? Why bother? Why not just give up on me? But no, instead — forgiveness, adds to my sorrow, to my humbleness. To my own self-pity. I'm a cockroach, nothing, yet forgiven. Who am I to understand? I don't.
And last week, just on the other side of this past weekend, I went out into the daylight of this world. And the daylight had stopped fighting me. It had stopped hurting me. The daylight of the Earth had become pleasant once more and welcoming, the sun had stopped blinding my eyes, and all the sunlight shining down and the daylight within the day existed together and included me within it once again.
I took my wife's hand that day, not as a husband, but as a child. We went in shops, we went and had lunch at our favourite local place, nothing special, nothing more than a posh café really, but we loved it, and she sat me down, literally sat me down, and left me to order our meal, and while she was gone, I looked out of the large windows near me, and I marvelled at the hue of the daylight, it looked alive, it looked alive, and part of life and once again, it felt a part of me, and I had to stop myself from crying, because God had put me back in his world again.
Yet I had become a child once again trying to make sense of my surroundings.
Everything looked alien to me. I couldn't comprehend what I was actually seeing. I became mesmerised by the colours of things, by the shape of things, and I couldn't understand what they were or were meant to be or why they existed at all.
And I felt like an alien within the world. I felt out of place. I watched the people living and moving around the strange colourful objects and I felt vulnerable despite the demon inside me ever watchful.
In the films, demonic possession doesn't look very nice, spinning heads and lots of vomit and people hanging upside down from ceilings.
Funny.
Yet for me, I have spent quite a lot of time lately letting my demon take over the reins of my existence, and now that {I'm} back, and {he} sleeps, a lot of my mind is blank, empty, scrubbed, and there's so much I have to relearn. My demon is not careful with my mind. He tramples it - and when he leaves - when he rests, I find many empty places in my mind that were filled with the things I needed to live in this world, gone. Two days ago, I couldn't even remember the operation of a certain app on my phone. It was like I'd never seen it before.
I have to relearn. And the longer my demon is out, the more I have to reclaim my mind while he sleeps.
I have a forked path ahead of me presently.
I'm now living in the daylight.
Again.
I can regain my mind and become the traveler I desire to be. To walk the city, to enjoy the places I love, to explore the bookshops, to enjoy the people, to live the way I love to exist in this world. It's all waiting for me.
Unfortunately, I want to feed again. It's already calling to me. And anyone who knows of addiction, whatever it is, knows you can't just say 'Hey, behave, I'm not listening, so shut up!' That doesn't work. Not for you, and not for me.
I have a week to plan for, and it really comes down to shopping for books or going out for a bite.
Then again, I do have a book voucher coming up for expiry. Maybe that alone will save my immortal soul from damnation this week.
Usual disclaimers, part fact, part bullshit. It's a disease. A delicious attention seeking disease.
(This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.)
After I've pleasured myself with feeding, I like to reassess my life during the following days.
I need to, as there's usually a lot of emotional baggage to unpack.
It's been a few days since I last fed. The bloodlust has left me. And I have to ask myself, as I do in all these post-feed-reviews, how the hell do I end up tied to a bed swallowing my wife's blood? What the hell? I sure don't want to do that now! Where does that come from? What molecule lies dormant in my body that takes over me to the point where all I can think about is that? I know it's in me, and I can never get rid of it, and that it's going to wake up again, but after three hours of mental pontification, all I ever come up with is, WTF?
Six years was my longest gap between feeds. It wasn't even six years. I fed within the first year of starting my abstinence. It wasn't a deep feed, I didn't go full on vampire, I just licked around the edges a bit, and about two years ago I fed harder, but that was nothing compared to my Red Riding Blood extravaganza. That one was a friggin' concert! So it's not been six years at all if I'm accurate. It's probably been two. 18 months if I narrow it down. 18 months. And here I am again.
I really felt I screwed up my relationship with God this time. I felt so empty. It went beyond sadness. I felt such remorse that I had decided to carry 30 pieces of silver with me as a mark of my betrayal so deep was my guilt. I felt wretched. I'd broken my word to God. Again. And I was feeding. Again.
Yesterday I decided to go on a spiritual journey to look for Him. I felt sure this time I would not find him.
But I needed to try.
I did not know where to begin, all the paths looked the same. The kind of paths you visualize in your mind spiritually. And within my mind, I set foot on one of those paths, not caring if it took an eternity to find God, knowing that if He did not want me to meet Him, I would never find Him, but I took solace in trying to find Him.
I needed to.
I love him.
And as soon as I stepped foot upon the path, God appeared, and He told me he'd been waiting for me on all paths, he'd been waiting for me to set foot on one of them.
I hadn't been able to face daylight in weeks without eyestrain and headaches and at that moment he told me to go into the daylight. I went outside, and there was no pain. Only God's world and God's love. And while I am so lowly that I can't keep my own word, God, I thank you, for having the strength to give to me that which I don't possess to give to you. My word is nothing but my love for you is great.
I'm making preparations to travel the way I did before I fell. It's tentative. I still feel weak, I feel humble. I feel like a bantling needing to hold God's hand to walk in His light.
I'm starting over. I've had many beginnings and this seems one of the brightest of all.
I'm anticipating.
I want to soar. I want to live in the sunlight and see the vastness of the sky and its horizon.
I was defiant. I believed I had the strength to live in God's world regardless, and now that I am humble, I feel that I'm starting to heal. A thorn has been removed from an infected place in my heart.
I don't blame Satan for nudging me back into falling and feeding over the previous months. How could I? He wanted me closer to Him. I love him. And I take warmth in his attention in pulling me towards him. And when I fed on Red, it was one of the best feeds I'd ever had. It was perfect. Even while feeding, I was amazed at how perfect it felt. It couldn't have been better. However, all good things come to an end. And the aftershock ruined me.
The sensations of the dark have split my world in two. I have frequently been broken through feeling the deeper levels of love through shared blood, yet I have never reached a limit. There is an ocean of feelings held within the blood, and it is never too much, there is never enough. Like air, food and water it is a constant.
I know I will return to the dark again. It holds the essence of my most delightful, needful, beautiful existence-enhancing sin, and I'll never be able to turn away from it fully for I have lived in the dark much longer than I have known the light. I just didn't know any better when I lived in the dark. Now I do. All the pleasure of hell or popping into Waterstones to buy a book to read with your coffee? I know what I often prefer.
I want to live in the light of God. And I want to stay close to the dark. I need both. They are both a part of me and I can't exist without either.
I love the daylight, I need it. I want the day, yet the power of the dark, I want what it affords me. To walk with Satan, you have the best protector — barring God Himself — and as a traveling companion, Satan rocks. Why? Because people don't fear God in the same way they do Satan, people fear being hurt, they don't fear being forgiven.
When I'm traveling I make a point of walking through the worst areas. I don't know why, I don't have any reason to, I just like it. I like how it makes me feel.
I like being within Satan's power, I like feeling protected, I like feeling safe and I like feeling strong. I've seen the films, the TV shows, and none of them encapsulate the fear you can put in someone who isn't very nice, or thinks they're a potential threat to you. I'd go to the worst areas and find the worst people to gauge their reactions simply by being there. I enjoy the 'I'm going to look at anything but you' expressions I often come across and, better yet, some people approach me and treat me like they have known me forever. I often feel the same about them.
I've found some of my closest and most dangerous friends in those times. Some have become family to me. Having friends who would put themselves in peril for you? And the deep sense of love that it generates? The irony is not lost on me that the most dangerous are often the most loving. I have cried for the depth of sincerity and care given by some of the people in my life I have befriended in the worst of places.
I'm reminded of a quote from the film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.
"I've seen knights in armour panic at the first hint of battle. And I've seen the lowliest, unarmed squire pull a spear from his own body, to defend a dying horse. Nobility is not a birthright. It's defined by one's actions."
And isn't that the whole point of existence itself? To love? To care? To find people who are worth more to you than life itself?
Isn't that why I turned towards the dark in the beginning? Because of love?
Isn't this entire existence a carousel endlessly revolving through the light and the dark to experience the deepest love in both?
I am not cursed. I am blessed. I am blessed by all those I love and who love me. Perhaps in the end, when God puts me down, and he will, for we all die eventually, I hope I get a chance to remember my loved ones before oblivion. Assuming that is my fate. I'd like to believe I'll get angel wings but can't help but wonder if it'll be a pointy tail.
I understand the dichotomy of loving and adoring God and Satan. Some tell me that I'm 'sitting on the fence' or 'playing one against the other', but it wouldn't be true. I simply won't abandon either of them, and in the end, at the end, if it rips me apart, my last thoughts, I hope, will be knowing I gave myself to both, because I loved them.
10 years ago, I bought the DVD box set of Twilight. I'd been told about it by friends who were fans of the films, and I wanted to get into the whole saga myself.
(This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.)
The box set got delivered, and I tried to get my wife, Dee, to watch the films with me. She wouldn't entertain the idea at all. Because she hates teen romance stories, even when vampire-themed, and in the end, knowing I'd never convince her, a few months later, I gave the box set away, still sealed in its wrapping, to a girl who was over the moon with the gift. I should have gone to her place and watched it.
I forgot about Twilight shortly after. I had no reason to think about it or any particular reason to watch it.
Last week, I ordered the films again, on blu-ray this time after a friend of mine who has a massive boner for these films told me to watch them after a long-winded moan of mine about a relationship issue he endured without too much complaint. I mean he's a sensible lad and raves over these films like a teenage girl, so you know? I wanted to see for myself.
And this time I managed to get Dee to watch it with me. If she has reservations about something I like, and she doesn't want to be involved, her response is simply a flat no, accompanied by an expressionless face. Yet this time, I was surprised that she was completely open to the idea of with no resistance at all. I didn't know what came over her, but OK. Cool.
Last night, Saturday night, after dinner, Dee, her sister, and I settled down to watch the film, the first in the series.
We have large windows set behind the television, and I like to close the curtains usually, but it was a lovely evening leading into dusk. I left them open so we could watch the trees in the distance sway back and forth in the wind. Eerie beautiful and mood-enhancing beyond what it should possibly gift, yet something that hits me deep inside my heart and mind, changing my very feelings. Incredible for what is little more than trees swaying in the wind. Perhaps I'm looking at life itself. I really think that's what it is. I watched life sway within the winds approaching dusk, just, true beauty. True beauty. It felt like an honor. It really did. It's an incredibly beautiful world, truly is. Just fucking, wow.
I was in the mood for the film, everything fitted together perfectly.
I lay on the sofa with Dee's sis, facing the TV, Dee in her usual chair some distance away and bingo! Twilight began, 10 years after me first asking her to watch it. 15 minutes later, Dee had lost all interest in the film and decided rubbing her face and looking like she wanted to hit somebody was a more productive pastime for her evening but that's by the by.
I felt entranced by the film from the beginning in the way if a person saw a particular cake they knew they'd enjoy without tasting it first. My friend who told me to watch Twilight, he primed me, he connected me to the film through his insistence and enthusiasm, I love him, I felt it.
And I just felt I was going to fall in love with Twilight even before I'd watched it.
I believe Twilight was shot in Canada, looking at the lush forestry in the film and with the trees swaying in the wind beyond our windows behind the TV, it added an almost three-dimensional experience to watching the film, especially as night was drawing close, matching the tones and hues within the film. It was just fabulous.
I'm usually on my laptop in the evening after dinner with the TV on and the girls doing the same, yet watching Twilight, I was mesmerized from the beginning, and I found it hard to look away. It had captivated me.
The story, oh, I didn't realize until after I'd watched the whole film how beautifully crafted it was, although my blog isn't a synopsis, or a review. I don't care to do that, I'm writing about certain aspects of vampirism and relationships that the film captured lovingly.
The character Edward, a 70-year-old vampire, don't quote me on that. The things I write here are an overview based on seeing the film once. This isn't a scientific paper, and may be slightly incorrect. It shouldn't matter, and I'm not going to start wikifying things. I don't think it really matters.
So we have Edward, 70 years old yet eternally 17, who decides to become a student again for various reasons, probably due to utter boredom and being obsessed with his frozen youth, meeting a girl, Bella, who he finds to be an utterly irresistible Scooby snack, quickly sending him mad with hunger chomping vampiric need.
From what I've read about vampirism, vampires are absolute shits when it comes to indulging in what they want. There's no willpower built into a vampire; it's lust-driven, lust, brain disengages, thoughts get switched off, your mind empties, and cravings overwhelm, and you sit in that stupor, feeling it slowly ebb your last thoughts away while simultaneously feeling like you're being dragged over a cliff you know you're going over no matter what, where you will land teeth first on whatever set you off in the first place.
And dear old Edward, knowing he's going to fuck, bite and probably kill, or turn, our little Bella - just starting out on her adulterous human life - decides to avoid her like the plague, knowing he is death itself standing over her. He shuns her, scowls a lot and then runs away from college to avoid necking her.
Days pass before Edward returns, while Bella pines for him despite barely knowing him. She just fucking loves him. Hey let's face it, vampires, take a look at one, and you're gone. Lost to love, lust, and insanity. Poor Bella, she fell. And on Edward's return, he did what a vampire always does, gave in, fell for her, and dragged her into his world.
The overall story of Twilight, to me, was irrelevant. They had some werewolf on vampire feud thing going, I think, and some spats with nomad vampires I wasn't interested at all in, but the way the love story unfolded between a vampire and a human just broke my fucking heart.
Imagine never being able to age with the person you fell in love with, while knowing their death was mere decades away and knowing how short those decades would feel to you.
I mean what is 30 years? It's nothing, many can understand how fast that time goes, and a person in their 50s will likely not even have that time before they're gone. Imagine how totally heartbreaking that would feel like. Imagine watching them age, and seeing illness accrue year upon year, watching them become frail and not having a damn thing to save them.
Sure, in our imaginary vampire world, vampires could turn a person, ruin them, taint their soul, destroy every aspect of what they were intended and meant to be, and then watch them slowly lose not only the aspects of their personality they once loved, but the parts of them that you fell in love with too.
Twilight has so many heartbreaking scenes.
Edward and Bella could barely touch each other without Ed going batshit for Bell's neck, and to make matters worse, the actress playing Bell had a neck like a fucking swan. I wanted to bite her myself!
Every time Eddie went near Bella, all he could smell was her blood.
Does blood smell like blood to vampires in the same way blood smells like blood to a human?
Perhaps it smells like every vulnerable feeling that person has ever known, and holds every sorrow, every pain, every yearning, every hope and dream, every loss, every tear. And vampires, generally being empathic, it probably crucifies them. A lifetime of a person's pain taken into yourself by breathing them into your lungs within seconds. I imagine it's harrowing. And the characters in Twilight, I think they captured that life beautifully, just beautifully.
By the end of the film, I was sitting on the sofa muttering about Bella, turn her, just ... fucking ... turn her.
Which prompted Dee to ruin my wannabee-vampire vibe by asking me to get her a drink. Asking, telling, a grey area in my house that I never test.
Then you have the morality issue of taking a person away from their natural life cycle and the opportunity of raising a family, and ageing as life intended, and taking them away from their friends and loved ones.
You can't turn everyone.
Usually, the girl in question, forget men, I can't even, wants to be turned, forgets everything, everyone, every dream and cares for nothing but the vampire, which is nothing more than a monster dressed up to look appealing. As Eddie says in the film, everything is a camouflage designed to attract.
I believe in future films Bell gets turned. I'm not sure, I don't care about spoilers, and I'm not anal about it. I think there's another four films in the box set, so lots of content to come there. I have a feeling it'll turn to shit but for me, the first film is gentle and well crafted yet of the inevitably tragic.
We're watching part two after dinner this evening, although we're more likely to watch part one again as Dee seems willing to give it another go since she lost interest and fell asleep.
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The Twilight Saga Part Two: New Moon.
A few days ago I blogged about the film Twilight. It wasn't so much a review as a life parallel I identified with within the film. We can all identify with something in what we watch, otherwise why bother? And I'm not talking about identifying with vampires, I'm talking about relationship parallels. Not werewolves and fangs.
Last night we watched the second film in the series called New Moon, and I have to say, this saga constantly surprises me with its depth in regard to love and relationships.
This blog isn't a review of New Moon anymore than my last blog about Twilight was a review about that, but these films, man, they really hit me right in the heart and make me think about my own past and present relationships with loved ones old and new.
At the beginning of New Moon, Edward, the vampire, had decided to abandon his human girlfriend Bella to save her from a life of vampirism, her soul from damnation, and preserve her humanity, seemingly unaware that abandoning her would break her heart and destroy her life.
Over the course of following days, Bella's mind started to shatter through the grief of losing him. She'd wake herself screaming his name during the night, yet he no longer answered. She'd curl up in a chair staring out the window searching for him, yet he could no longer be seen. And everything inside her was broken, longing for him, yet he was no longer there.
The days passed. Bella became a husk. Empty. Numb. In every sense other than biological, dead.
No one could reach her. No one could bring her back. Not even her father.
Until Jake.
Jake, who happened to be a werewolf, — it's best just rolling with it — is a far more lovable and likeable character than Edward ever was, loved Bella, adored Bella, and was besotted by Bella bordering on obsession.
And as these things went, Jake, an all-round good guy, started to fall even deeper for Bella, who didn't stop him, led him on and used him to fill the hole in her life and her heart that Edward had left behind.
And upon Edward's return to her life some months later, Bella ripped Jake's heart out in the most inhumane way possible.
Man, I was in tears.
I think anyone who has a bit of life behind them ends up in that exact situation perhaps more than once.
I have. Mutiliple times. That exact situation where I was told by the girl I loved or at least had strong feelings for didn't want me more than the other guy in their life.
On two occasions it happened to me because the girls in question loved their ex-husbands more than me. I guess when you find out the husband ran off it should be a red flag, but I never learned.
And on one of those occasions I got dumped even BEFORE!!!!! The husband was back on the scene. Yes, I got dumped by that lady on her presumption that 'one day' her ex-husband 'might' get back in touch with her. I wished her well and walked out of her house telling her I'd be going to her wedding. I met the girl for years and years afterward. I never saw sight of her husband reappearing once, and I don't blame him.
The other girl I can't even be bothered typing about.
But one time — THE TIME — it happened to me, and ripped me apart.
My wife's sister. We've been lovers since the beginning of my poly relationship with Dee.
Some years back. Dee's sister, I'll call Liz, had a boyfriend, a man, called John. While she was sleeping with me.
And I found the whole thing too emotionally wrecking to handle, I couldn't get a grip on it at all. I tried. I tried meditation, putting my thoughts in order, focusing on Dee, knowing everything else was just 'fun', so I was told, yet it didn't work.
And every time John came to visit our home, basically to shag Liz, it just wrecked me emotionally. John, was one of the worst people I have ever met. He was up there with my father.
I was lying on the sofa once watching TV, and he walked in and kicked me hard in the ribs. That's who John was. Aside from his moustache he even looked similar to my father, same build, similar facial features same fucking eye and hair colour.
And John rubbed my nose in his relationship with Liz. He'd slobber all over her while something inside me, it felt like I had a hook inside my guts and someone was swinging from it.
One Saturday afternoon I was in our garage just staring at the concrete floor trying to force myself to not be upset that John was due to visit to spend the night with Liz. All the while she was happy as a lark trying on latex dresses and fucking expected me to sit on the bed helping her choose so she could fuck John in one fuck off, I went back downstairs and left her to it.
One night after John, the sisters and I had been drinking — yes, we still managed to drink together — I went upstairs for a piss and then decided to chill out in the bedroom and lay down on the bed, and a minute later John followed me upstairs, grabbed hold of my hair and dragged my head down to his groin.
Anyway, we ended up in a fight, a proper fucked up fight, which wasn't great because we were both pissed. It didn't last long, and it petered out within a minute.
He wasn't bothered about it. I wasn't bothered about it. And we went downstairs for more drinks. I just didn't fancy his cock in my mouth.
And the sisters didn't give a fuck about us fighting, they don't give a fuck about anything, especially Dee. She knew we'd been fighting and couldn't even be bothered to comment on it Lol. LMAO, I'm not kidding. I can still see her face when John and I came back down looking a bit fucked up. She was totally nonplussed lmao. Fucking funny. Pmsl. John went straight back to drinking and I couldn't stop laughing at Dee's face.
John and I had never sex once, and I knew him maybe four years before he fucked off. There was just something about him that didn't attract me to him. Yeah maybe looking like my fucking father didn't help!
John was up for fucking me, which I usually find tantalizing when a man is sexy, but with John I couldn't give a fuck about him. Just no connection to him at all. I couldn't even get the hate-sex on with him because Liz loved him.
I just wanted him gone.
Years ago, I watched a film called 'The Swiss Family Robinson' and in it, two brothers fell out over a girl to the point one of them wanted to kill the other and I thought fuck, that's your brother? Have you gone insane? I couldn't understand how anyone could think that way, kill your own brother over a girl?
But when I got involved with the sisters and John, I wouldn't go as far as to say I wanted to kill him, but I did want him out of the picture. It didn't even matter to me that Liz loved him, I just wanted him gone. John knew that and used it against me mentally, he always had that over me, and he fucked me up with it.
Time passed, lots happened, and I got to a point, a sickening Sunday. I felt like my tears were stinging inside my eyes, fucking, even the looking at the wallpaper was breaking my heart, and I asked Liz to choose me over John.
And just like in that scene in New Moon, she started off by telling me she loved me. I'm just in tears typing this, which kind of is the whole point of blogging for me.
She chose John.
Oh man, that scene, in that film, last night .. opened me.
It all happened some time ago and Liz and John eventually split up. She dumped him. But not for me. She dumped him for far less, they basically got sick of each other and walked out of each other's lives.
I'm still that lost kid who wasn't chosen. It's all I sometimes see when I look at her face. I think it's all she sees in me sometimes too. Most times.
She's had girlfriends since, and never had a boyfriend since John. I often believe to save my heart. Although I can't deal with thinking about that. It'll rip something deep inside me apart if I do. Too deep to repair I think.
Man, all from a fucking Twilight film.
We're watching Twilight 3 tonight. At this rate I'll need medication by the end of the week.
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The Twilight Saga Part Three: Eclipse (2010)
I wrote a blog about this film although with Vampire Rave being PG13 it's not suitable to add to my journals as it focused on polyamory relationships.
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The Twilight Saga Part Four: Breaking Dawn Part One
Last night we watched Twilight — Breaking Dawn part One — the fourth film in the saga.
A lot happened in this one; a marriage, vampire-on-werewolf fights, the kind of things you'd expect, yet the stand-out scenes in this film, for me, weren't heartbreaking this time as per the previous films — they were heartwarming.
Spoilers below if you intend to watch these films and haven't yet. I know, my Twilight blogs are full of spoilers, but this spoiler is a biggie!
Jake imprinted on Bella and Edward's baby girl soon after she was born.
What is imprinting?
This is the imprinting, taken as a quote from the movie:
"It's like gravity. Your whole center shifts.
Suddenly, it's not the Earth holding you here.
You would do anything, be anything she needs.
A friend, a brother, a protector."
It was such a beautiful scene as Jake approached the young child and fell to his knees.
All of his power, all of his strength, all of his love. To fall that way, to collapse that way, to feel that single pivotal moment knowing that the deepest part of your own existence is in giving it to another, to protect, until death.
It goes beyond love.
It goes beyond anything. I adore these films.
We're watching the final part of the saga tonight. Twilight — Breaking Dawn part two — Bella is a vampire now. All I can think is, how the hell is her dad NOT going to notice her eyes have changed color!
Maybe sunglasses, contact lenses, easing her old dad into the idea until they both reach a point where he knows what's going on but doesn't say anything about it until one day, she walks down the stairs and she forgets to stick her contacts in, and he casually says 'You forgot your contacts!' she says yeah, and he says 'How's vampire life?' and she says cool and then It's largely forgotten about ...
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The Twilight Saga Part Five: Breaking Dawn Part Two.
I finally got to watch Twilight Saga, Breaking Dawn part two, a couple of nights ago. It got delayed as Dee, my wife, kept making excuses not to watch it, and Sunday being Sunday, she always insisted on watching what she calls a period drama in the evenings. No horror, no sci-fi — it has to be period.
Why?
She thinks a more traditional film belongs to a Sunday evening and nothing else is will do. I tried to explain that by watching Twilight we'd be watching a 'period drama' because the vampires in it are so old, but she said that was a technicality and refused my plea.
I don't even remember which film we watched instead. I'm fairly sure she can't remember either.
Monday evening came around, and Dee was more than happy for me to stick to the final instalment of Twilight in the Blu-ray player.
Her enjoyment of the Twilight Saga has ranged from rubbing her face and looking like she wanted to hit me - I didn't ask - during the first film, to boredom in the second, and her putting her laptop down and getting dewy eyes over Jake imprinting on Bella's child in Breaking Dawn Part One.
By the final film in the series she was waiting for it to start as soon as my hand reached for the TV remote.
I had misgivings about watching it. I'm not quite sure why, sadness perhaps, I'd really enjoyed the films, and we'd reached the end of the saga.
A series that had filled my heart with warmth over the imprinting storyline and had filled my heart with sadness over its continuing plot of love rejection and betrayal.
I cried buckets over these films while watching them and as the story moved towards clear indications of polyamory, between the main characters within the love triangle - the only place it could possibly go to save all of the characters' hearts and happiness, I started to feel better about watching the saga as a whole.
That said, polyamory isn't a subject I feel is suitable to journal about in the Vampire Rave, which saddened me in a way, as often, a core aspect of 'vampire life' is all about bonding. And that doesn't really happen if you're locked into monogamy.
I mean, can you imagine? Vampires? - 'Oh I'm sorry, I can't have any physical contact with you despite my raging bloodlust because I have a wife/GF/partner! So I will not to be biting you today. Thank you very much!'
Yeah, right.
Anyway, moving past poly vampires, and werewolves too, apparently, Bella got fitted for her contact lenses. I saw that one coming after she finished her turn at the end of Breaking Dawn part one. Eyes red, popped open. Dad! I'm a vampire!
Lol. Vampire transformation used to be earth-shattering in films, now it's as easy as saying you have a new boyfriend. Plug and play vampirism in modern day cinema. Why not?
I thought the scene fitting brown contacts over red irises was a beautiful touch, Twilight has a lot of detailing, and I think it's been crafted with a lot of care. Whoever wrote these scripts, I know they're based on the books, I've not read them, put some love into these stories, it shows. I find the whole saga beautiful.
As Tree - Occult Ranger on VR — mentioned in a recent post, the concept of vampire family life being an everyday thing encompassing the routines needed, is a fresh and pleasant aspect of modern cinema, and this theme is promoted especially well in the Twilight saga, I find.
I'm not overjoyed watching people / vampires sleeping in coffins buried in the earth of a cellar in some obscure house in a remote location. Those kinds of vintage movies, I find them soulless, empty and rather repressing, yet scenes in Twilight, such as Jake falling asleep on the sofa surrounded by people who love and care about him, yeah, that hits the spot for me good and deep. And why not? It's a scene anyone may be able to relate to too. I like to do this myself, fall asleep on the sofa while loved ones do their own thing around me, drift away listening to their voices, feeling protected, loved, happy, content. It's a hell of a thing, and it may seem such a trivial thing, but the little things usually end up mattering more than the big things when it comes to quality of life and all of those little things make life a life worth living.
These Twilight films, they get my endorphins running real high and Jake falling asleep on the sofa? Yeah, you'd have to understand why scenes like that matter to understand why it should matter.
When I first got hold of the Twilight box set a couple of weeks back, I guess, after a friend said shut-up-buy-it— watch it. I thought shit, five films, it's going to be a shit-fest. And it wasn't — until the last film.
Twilight couldn't go out on a high, could it? No — they had to go full on Harry Potter and have a friggin' multicast war with frigging' vampires flying around in the air doing kung fu on each other — and then — to make sure you felt like shit while watching shit - they killed all my favorite characters off, barring Jake.
Jasper was my favorite vampire bar none. I loved the character, right from the start. He had trouble controlling his bloodlust, yet kept on trying, and he had help from his girlfriend, who understood that when he went off the rails, all he basically needed was a head rub and a little TLC to calm down. A great storyline, superb. And then they killed him off! What a crock, I don't care if it's a film, I felt that one hard.
And then!!! - It turned out that the war where many of the main characters were decapitated, burned alive and killed - including Jasper - It turned out it was nothing more than a precognitive 'vision' that a vampire was showing to another vampire and no one had died after all! And if that wasn't enough to spoil the evenings entertainment, they had a protracted scene where my second favorite wolf in the film, Seth, had his neck broken in a fight followed by a close up of his limp and lifeless body! - like, fuck-what? -
How much pain are you putting your audience through Twilight?
So fuck you Twilight, you made sure you squeezed the last few tears out of me before the end. Lol not lol.
Honestly, Twilight, why? You were classy until the flying kung-fu vampires. You couldn't help yourselves could you!
Now I'm Twilight -lite.
I've done The Vampire Dairies to death, and I've met most of the cast at comic cons over the years.
Years ago, there was a Twilight stand at one of the comic cons I'd bought tickets for, and I had no interest in the actors at all, because I hadn't seen their films. I took a quick Google just now, and there were several cast members of the Cullen clan attending that particular comic con. I'm kicking myself now, of course, it'd have been cool to meet them and get a group picture and a few autos for my collection.
I'll keep an eye on the listings and see if they end up on the con circuit again. I need me a Jake and a Jasper auto!
Baby: This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.
I wrote this song, some months after my girlfriend died to help as a coping mechanism.
The song is called Baby.
Some years ago, my wife's sister introduced me to her new girlfriend. And at first sight I felt her girlfriend was an interloper.
My wife and her sister and I have a tight family, we live together, and I didn't want anyone else involved in our lives together.
It may sound selfish but I was comfortable. I was happy, I felt secure, and I wasn't in the mood for strange women to be easing themselves into my life by way of my wife's sister.
I didn't take to the sister's girlfriend at first at all. I simply flat out refused to entertain her, I didn't want her in my life.
The weeks passed. The girlfriend spent time at my house developing her relationship with my wife's sister. I kept my distance.
One Sunday morning, I was thinking about a million other things, and my wife's sister's girlfriend came down the stairs. She'd practically been living with us for a couple of months or so then, and she came down the stairs and gave me a look, and all I can say is, she broke my heart. In two. Right there. Right then.
Her eyes.
She stared straight into me.
And I couldn't help but stare into her.
And that was the first time I ever truly saw her. And she was beautiful. It wasn't just how she looked. She yearned for me. I saw it in her eyes and the shift of her head, in her pose, demeanour, and I didn't want to give in. I didn't. I didn't want more stress and the emotional pain attached to another person in my life needing me. I was selfish, I am selfish, because sooner or later everyone gets ill and everyone dies, and I'm trying to stop myself feeling those deaths but I knew, knew! KNEW! I would have to feel hers one day if I let her inside me. Oh, I felt her death the moment I looked in her eyes and I could feel it, and I knew how quickly it would come to me, that moment of her death and that stupid fucking in-between bit that is supposed to be called time, yet all that happens is there's a start and then death and when death comes all I can think of is how little time there was before it, and I'm left with more pain and a damaged mind again for losing someone else I loved.
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah I fell in love anyway.
I became a child. Helpless. Needful. My heart. I felt like I wanted to envelop her in my love and protect her. I needed her. I loved her. Right then. In a single moment. I became a different person around her. She utterly ripped the skin off everything I had inside my mind to not become emotionally attached to her. And there, then, we began to be connected emotionally. She and I were not the same people we were a few seconds before. We were the people we had become at that moment. And at that moment, and forevermore, we loved each other. No build up, no chatting, no small talk, no getting to know each other, we simply loved each other. It took nothing more than a couple of moments of connection. And moving forward from there, we both accepted it. It didn't need words. It didn't need anything. It simply needed to be.
I became a child around her. I was besotted with her. I pandered to her needs. I did every single thing I could do to look after her. Nothing was too much trouble, because I held a horrible pain in my heart for her, and I became afraid of hurting her in any way, no matter how small. I needed her to be happy. I needed her to feel loved. I needed her to know she was wanted, and I needed her to know she was welcome.
How did my wife's sister feel about me falling for her girlfriend? I sleep with my wife's sister too.
My wife's sister's girlfriend. She had a peculiar name, so while the sisters and our friends would use her name despite it being a bit of a tongue twister, I simply fell into calling her Baby. It felt natural, it was comfortable and it stuck. And for all of her life, I never called her anything else.
She was my Baby.
My wife loved Baby deeply. Her sister loved Baby deeply. But I loved her more.
And Baby and I fell into a deep untouchable relationship both with my wife and her sister and apart from them.
I could hang out with Baby in a way I could never with my wife and her sister. The sisters are the adults of our household. I'm not. I'm a child within our family. I usually get told what to do and when to do it. The sisters arrange meal times and what we are eating. They arrange pretty much everything. I just usually keep quiet and go along with their plans and when we go shopping, I'm just the trolley pusher, they choose the food, I just unpack it, and that hierarchy is saturated throughout our life together. They even choose when the TV goes on and what we watch. I just go along with things.
Getting back to Baby, she was my buddy, we got to hang out, we'd scoot off upstairs often and climb into bed together with a pair of laptops, or books, and just hang out. It was the best of times. To have her next to me, the way she made me feel, just her near me, it made me feel something that I felt was perfect.
It wasn't what we did together, it was the way we both made each other feel and we became inseparable. We were the best of friends. In a sense, she became my world. She'd follow me in a way my wife never would. My wife is a lot stronger than me emotionally, and it affects and sets my relationship with her.
Yet with Baby, she saw me as a strong person who would, and did, look after her. I did, look after her.
She was beautiful and I mean that. Everyone says their spouse, girlfriend etc, is beautiful, but Baby was truly beautiful. You could put her in a room full of women, and she would stand out.
She was the kind of girl that could break your heart just by widening her eyes a little and focusing on yours. Baby, she was deeply special to me, and it's crap that's how I describe her — 'deeply special'—but if I started writing about her, I wouldn't stop for six hours. So Baby, you were, and always will be, deeply special.
And we all lived. We lived. Lived for years. Together. And time passed. And it went too quickly. It went the way when you're having a great time, and suddenly it's over, and you can't believe the time has gone so fast.
We all lived together. Until Baby died. Why? How?
It's not for this blog.
Baby died in the autumn of last year.
My wife's sister, my wife, coped a lot better than I did.
Baby's death was as painful as I imagined it would be. And me being a morbid type, I always imagined her death and how it would feel while she was still alive. I used to lie next to her in bed knowing she would one day be gone, knowing I couldn't stop it, and knowing that space in the bed one day would never be filled with her again.
And when she died, in the weeks and months afterward, when I lay in that bed and looked at the space where she was once alive, it felt the way I thought it would.
I expected oceans of overwhelming pain when Baby died, and it came as I knew it would, and I said to the pain, just drown me, you've done it before, come and drown me, and it cascaded over me and I was still able to breathe because how wet can you get when you've spent a lifetime living in that ocean. But Baby's death hit another part of me that I wasn't expecting. My mind. I lost my mind after her death. And I wasn't expecting that. And that broke me. Not my pain. My longing for her to come back. That caused me to loose my mind in a way I never had before.
It's not that I gave up on life. I have my wife, her sister, our friends, our family, but anyone who has known grief will know that nobody else can console you when a loved one dies. All you want is that person back, and no one else matters. You can't fit a different person in that space in your life where your dead loved one once was and once lived. And that space just remains empty.
In my case, that empty space started to fill with a lack of inhibition. That's how it felt and that's how it still feels, not to the intensity it was a few months back, but I'm not the same since Baby's death.
I'm not heartbroken. That's too soft a term. Numb stinging grief. That's how it feels. And my mind isn't working the way it did before she died.
I'm never going to get over Baby's death. It's been months, my heart burns for her. I miss her. Fucking in tears. Baby steps. Baby ... steps.
We all have our crutches. Booze, drugs, cigarettes, gambling, we all have them. I have mine.
Drinking blood has always taken my pain away, instantly, instantly. My brain hasn't the capacity for anything else when I'm focused on blood. There's no room for anything else. I make myself feel good. It feels good like nothing else feels good.
I can go from the depths of despair to utter elation in moments when I drink. And I've used that as a tool in my past to phase my brain out of whatever emotional pain I was in by sinking into blood. - all consensual adult activities — even just writing about it helps. It gives me a little bump just thinking about it. My heart has sped up typing this. My grief has lessened.
I hate letting God down. I know drinking blood is a sin.
Do I really think I'm going to heaven at the end of all this? How many feeds is one feed too many? When does God pull up that drawbridge?
I'm tired of the light. Because Baby is no longer in it. Sadly, she isn't in the dark either. She is in the ground.
Baby: Blog #2.
This blog isn't really about Baby. It's about the impact of losing loved ones over time, and how a person's memory can compress decades into moments and make a persons entire existence seem to last only weeks or scant months to those left alive and grieving.
My house is old. Some places in it haven't been dusted in decades, and after Baby's death, I became obsessed with finding all of the little nooks and crannies I had paid no attention to since before ever knowing Baby.
In the first couple of months after Baby's death, I'd go to the picture frames in the hall and run my finger across the top of the frames to collect the dust that had settled there before Baby had even come to live with us. I looked at it and touched it and thought that the dust had outlived Baby. It was still existing in the world. I could still see it. I could still feel it. Yet Baby isn't here, and my mind is having difficulty accepting that, then, and now.
I visit her grave. In the first few weeks after she was buried, I made her grave into a project. I'd turn up with a little trowel to make it look perfect, I'd take a flask of tea and sit with her, I'd stay with her until dark and when it got dark, I remained. I sat in the dark on the ground knowing she was below it and I felt she was still there, a part of her still remained. I felt she was with me.
And in the house we shared, I wandered it, I wanted to find her, I believed I would. It didn't matter that reality wouldn't allow it. I believed it.
I'd put photographs of her, photographs I had taken, of her in the rooms where I placed the photographs. I had a photograph of her looking out of the bedroom window. I had it printed, and I put it on the window sill where she has looked out from.
I went from room to room doing the same things.
And I wandered mornings and evenings looking for things that remained undisturbed from before Baby came to to live with us and remained undisturbed even after her death.
Life and coincidence can be incredibly cruel. One of the times I wandered my house, I found an old blister pack of headache relief pills and the expiry date on them was the exact date Baby moved into my house. I found the blister pack tucked behind an old plant pot with dried flowers in it. Why? Of all things? That. Cruel coincidence. Cruel coincidence.
All of those years we shared, our life together, all of it, now compressed into nothing more than a memory. I can feel the part of my mind that broke when she died. I don't think it will get better. I don't want it to. It's part of me now. I need it.
Baby: Blog #3.
In the months leading up to Christmas 2025, I fell hard through the loss of Baby, and I went back to a woman I call Red.
She held me, helped me, indulged me, and let me sink.
She saved me from the worst of my own pain. Got me through it like a salve, deep, dark, bottomless craving, indulged finally, after years of denial.
Years.
I was going to say it felt good. It didn't feel good, it felt like I'd re-tuned into the essence of the whole point of existence. I fed. All the way. No breaks, no limits. Just one. No vow. No bow. The rest was mine, hers, ours. I'd never felt better. There was guilt after. Worth it? Yeah. It was worth it.
Red helped in the following weeks after Baby's death by giving me a place to hide, even from myself.
My wife? She couldn't help me. She's not a one-size-fits-all. No one is.
This is a long winded, depressing exploration into my childhood. I've posted it before in two parts. Now it's combined into one blog.
Part One: Love.
I spent the first five years of my life locked in a bedroom. As bizarre as that sounds, that was my introduction to life here on Earth.
My father was a sadist. Whatever he could imagine doing to me, he'd do. My first real experience of physical pain was when my father punched me in the face shortly after I'd learned to walk. Why? The reason was because I'd passed him in the hallway of our home and as he was coming towards me, I said hello. His response was to grab me around the throat, push me hard against the wall, raise his fist to my face, and punch me. No blood, no broken bones. But I was dumbfounded. I couldn't understand why my face hurt so much. I was so shocked I couldn't even cry.
My mother, tended to me while my father walked off. My father also used my mother as his punch bag. Sometimes, when my father had gone out of our home for whatever reason, my mother would let me leave my bedroom. I'd roam the house, and in those times, I'd often notice blood on the wooden floors. I was a child, and couldn't understand. Mother lied about it, and being a child I believed her. Her favorite lie was that it was magical blood, and it came out of the floor. She told me all kinds of shit. Why didn't she clean it up? I think she'd given up trying.
Nonetheless, five years passed, and I spent most, but not all of them, locked in a bedroom for my own safety. My father would leave me alone there. I was safe as long as he didn't see me. So the bedroom was a sanctuary of sorts.
Pissing in any container that'd hold my urine was a thing as I got a bit older. Before that I'd lie in my own piss till mother turned up. I'm not typing the other things I had to do to keep ticking along.
Social services? The police? Uh, Uh, they didn't exist back then, not in the forms they take today. And the term 'severe mental illness' and help for that didn't exist back then either. Maybe good old dad should have been sectioned.
You may think my mother had great sympathy for me. She didn't. I was little more than a stray cat she felt obligated to feed. She never spoke to me and when I spoke to her, she usually lied to me, probably to shut me up.
I started to fold within my own mind, there was no place else for me to go. And here's where my blog starts to get fucked up. You may think my blog is already terribly fucked up, but now it has taken a turn into real fuckery.
Satan came to visit me.
In my bedroom.
Perhaps it was a child's mind finally snapping, and creating creatures to talk to through loneliness and isolation. Perhaps it was something a little more supernatural. It doesn't matter which way the blog is viewed. I write from my own perspective.
We're not talking about some weird old pervert uncle taking advantage of me here that I've turned into 'Satan' through childhood trauma either.
I was a child. A young child. And yet in those times, in my bedroom, Satan was the only friend I had. He spoke to me. He comforted me. I had no concept of religion. I hadn't heard of God. But Satan, in that bedroom, for all those years, he spent those years comforting me. And in the end, he saved me. My father was killed when I was five years old.
I didn't find out how my father was killed until I was 17 years old because my mother wouldn't talk about what happened. Eventually, she told me on an incredibly rare occasion she could be bothered to say more than a single sentence to me.
I won't type what happened to my father. He died in a way befitting the life he led. It was not a pleasant death. I've never felt anything more than indifference about it. Not happy, not sad, but in a practical sense, his death changed the course of my childhood.
I grew up with Satan. I grew with Satan. And my life has been influenced by him since. Some of it I've put in journals, some I'll never type of. Perhaps some may think 'Why can't you type it, what evil things have you done?' I've never done an evil thing in my life. I know the pain evil causes people and to make anyone go through the pain I went through as a child? I'd rather die.
The evil I suffered? The evil I grew up in from my father? It was a compost. A compost that my love grew out of. The more pain I suffered, the more compassion I had for life. Every punch, every kick, every drop of blood, made my fucking heart burn in love. I needed to give love more than I ever needed to receive it.
I had a string of girlfriends growing up, my past made me more attractive not less. Yet none of them lasted. They weren't for me.
I wanted something else.
I met someone a long time ago who lapped up every ounce of love I could wring out of myself. And then, when I thought I had no more to give, she took me even further.
I write my poems about her and eventually, she became my wife.
I'd finally found a place for my love, and it was crucially near the end of my wish to remain on Earth, for my life was overwhelming me, it had started to kill me, consume me, and destroy me.
She took my pain away, she eased me, she gave me an ocean bed to lay my love upon, and she welcomed the waves and turmoil within me. She took it all, until I became a small star within her universe, for she is so much more than me. She holds me in a way I have never been able to contain myself. I only know peace within her love. I'm lost without her. I'd die without her.
Part Two: Three Fathers.
I wrote about my father recently. This blog continues my exploration into my life as a child with him. If you found part one distressing, I'd advise you not to read this one.
Writing my last blog was therapeutic. So I'm going at it again. And delving deeper. As I say, if the last one upsets you, don't read this one.
Was my father an evil man? I don't know. I had no concept of evil as a child. These days I try to believe my father suffered from mental illness, but when I sit and think about him, all I come up with is his premeditated and deliberate cruelty. And the great pleasure he took in my suffering.
Everything in my father's mind seemed to be about causing me physical and emotional pain.
I have no idea how I came to be born. My father beat my mother frequently. She cried every day. She never smiled. He was always angry. I still can't fathom how they ever made love. Most likely I was born from rape. But that is a subject I can't type about here. It might explain why he hated me from my birth.
Anyway, on to calmer things.
Between birth and the age of five, I spent most of those years locked in my bedroom saving me from my father's violence.
Despite that, I had several encounters with my father when I was out of my bedroom, where he didn't physically attack me upon sight.
That might sound like a strange thing to say, but the times when my father didn't attack me upon sight were uncommon.
And those are the occasions I want to write about.
And on one of those occasions, I asked him to help me. I was around four years of age.
I had a small wooden train and one of the wheels had broken off. I asked my father for help. I hadn't been taught to ask for help, I simply reached out to him instinctively.
He looked at me with a neutral expression. He didn't speak.
I asked him for help again while showing him my broken train.
He didn't speak.
I asked him again. At this point, I'm pretty sure I had started to feel like I was getting ready to start crying. I guess even children have refined instincts about how things are going to go.
I started crying.
He started laughing. That's right. He started laughing. The kind of laugh when someone surprises you with a hilarious joke.
I cried harder. My body had taken over the situation at that point, and it was all about how my body felt, and it felt upset.
I showed him my train.
He started to roar with laughter and I mean full-on belly laughing.
I remember how deeply I started to sob. The kind where your breath starts to hitch repeatedly. I sobbed. And he roared with laughter.
My mother came in and took me to my bedroom. I don't remember what happened after.
It was my first experience of learning never to ask an adult for help again. It screwed up my education completely in the years to follow because I couldn't bring myself to ask any teacher to help me when I was stuck in lessons. I had to self learn everything.
I asked no one for help when I was growing up. Ever. I couldn't understand that most people were not like my father. I couldn't bear the pain of refusal.
Despite my father battering me, I still loved him. I felt a certain way about him and that was that. How he treated him didn't change my love for him.
Unfortunately, this led to some of my worst emotional times with him.
My birthdays were no events. I'd sometimes get a present from my aunt and uncle. One birthday I got a fountain pen from them. An odd present but I was happy with it. It was mine. I took it to show my father. He was sitting in his chair. I passed it to him. I may have been four years old. He looked at it, took the pen out of the lovely box it was in and gave the pen gave back to me. I knew not to say a single word to him. I went to my mother, she didn't help me get my box back. It ruined my birthday.
One of my worst memories that really caved me in emotionally as a child was when my mother bought me a birthday present.
I was shown love from her in the form of a birthday present, and it really opened up new feelings inside me as a child.
Something inside my brain switched on and it felt good. It felt nice. I hadn't accessed it before. I had an experience of feeling loved.
My mother gave me a present.
And me being me, a child being a child, I went to show my father. His behavior toward me before didn't count. I was still at this point trying to bond with him.
Anyway, my mother bought me a small spinning top. I'm not sure if they make them anymore. You'd push down on it and it spins around. I took it to show father, again, sat in his chair, and as soon as I gave it to him, he stood up, took a painting off the wall, and hung my spinning top high up on the painting's nail. I didn't even ask him to get it down for me. But what happened next, was one of the worst emotional experiences I've ever experienced to this day.
It was the first time I experienced sorrow for another person. I felt sorrow for my mother. She had bought me this present, it was like the physical entity of love that I'd felt for the first time in my life that day, and I couldn't take care of it.
The love she had given me had been taken from me and was hanging high above me and I couldn't reach it. I tried. I jumped. I wasn't anywhere near the top. I couldn't reach it. I tried to climb up the sheer wall, I clawed at the wall, my heart broke. It broke. The first time, my mother showed me love and I failed her. I screwed my eyes shut and pushed myself into the wall.
I don't remember what happened after that.
My father used to cut glass at home. For picture frames. Back then the world wasn't as it is now. And people made what they wanted. One day, a sunny day, he was cutting a small glass sheet on the floor, using a hand glass cutter, and by his side was a pile of glass shards glistening in the sun.
I already knew what blood was. I'd seen it on our floors and tasted it in my mouth. But this was something new. Father asked me to pass him the glass shards. I wanted to please him, so I pushed my fingers into the pile, a small pile, only a few inches in width and height. And then I felt a new pain, one I hadn't experienced before. And I didn't like it. It was so horrible. So sharp, and then the blood appeared coming out of my fingers. Bright fresh blood in the sunlight from the window. I couldn't understand what was happening. Why were my fingers doing what they were doing? I screamed. My mother came into the room. She took me away and washed my fingers in water. They were throbbing. They were going numb with the cold water. She wrapped them in a towel. They were still bleeding they wouldn't stop. I had glass in my fingers. She used her own fingers to take the shards from my fingers. Her fingers bled. And eventually, she let me go to bed. I don't remember what happened then. I just don't remember.
Things just got worse. My father became more violent. He started hitting me harder to the point I'd feel the heavy thud of his fist against my head and felt like I wanted to throw up. I felt wretched. I was always in pain. He always went for my head. And if I wasn't near enough, and he was sitting in his chair, he'd kicked out at my legs.
And around that point, I was confined permanently to my bedroom. I had all my meals there. I remember feeling worthless as my mother used to fry kippers for my father's breakfast every day and I could smell it in my bedroom, but she never brought any for me. I always got some food, but I never got any kippers.
I spent my time in that room staring out of the window. I felt mindless. Like a zombie.
My father was killed at my age of five and when he died, I was released into a different life of sorts. My mother was like a ghost. She was there, in the distance, yet never spoke to me. And I learned not to speak to her.
I'd sit in my bedroom — even after father was dead — and I'd listen to Satan speak to me in rhyme. He has a lullaby, a rhythm within his language, and it's musical, it beats, it sings, and the words are not remembered for being words but through the rhythms they sound like, and I learned to speak the same way. I started speaking in rhymes and eventually, tongues.
I didn't have a lot of things to occupy my time, but I loved rhyming and I did it all the time, it was my favourite thing. It made me feel happier.
My mother blew her top off eventually and became angry with me, and she told me to stop. She didn't say stop what. Just stop. Like I was supposed to know what she meant. I'd started to not like her very much at this point anyway.
It was the first real anger she had ever shown towards me and the first time she had ever shouted at me. It was my first experience of making someone angry at me that hadn't started off angry at me. I didn't like it. I knew I'd done something wrong and I felt a new kind of upset in my heart. It was my first experience of hurting someone and I wanted to hold her and love her and kiss her and I tried to hug her but as I tried she grabbed both my wrists and just shook them for a few seconds until I stopped trying. I ran to my bedroom and locked myself in. I'm not typing the pain I felt then. It doesn't deserve a place in words. Because that pain should never have existed, she should never have put that pain in me and I wont give it any more life that it already has still inside me by describing it in words.
I started staying away from her. She left me alone in my room.
I only had contact with her at meal times and felt uncomfortable around her, so I started taking my meals to my room despite my father being dead. I think she preferred it that way as she never made me have meals with her, so I stayed on my own.
I started to understand that I preferred not being around people.
When I was seven or eight, a man came to our house, from the local church. I can't remember what he was, a vicar or something similar, and I was very wary of him, mainly because he was a man.
He spoke to me quite kindly. I started to warm to him, despite all my father had done to me, and I was able to listen to him. He asked me some questions. I can't remember what. I did try to answer. Then my mother took him into my bedroom. I don't know why, but I suddenly felt really sad and started crying. I don't know what went on in my bedroom, I just sat in my father's old chair just feeling sad and crying. The vicar left. My mum seemed happier.
Nothing changed. In hindsite she clearly tried to shift Satan. It didn't work. Satan was mine. All mine. He made me happy. Satan gave me something to focus on and involve myself in. I wanted him. I needed him. He was all I thought about. I went to sleep thinking about him and woke up to check he was still there.
Was Satan ever there? Perhaps only in the delusions of a child's snapped mind.
I never saw the vicar again. My mother seemed to actively dislike me around that point. I left her alone. She left me alone. I didn't care. She made sure I had meals. I didn't need anything more. I had very few clothes, I didn't care.
Mother died earlier than she perhaps should have.
I wouldn't change a thing about my childhood, not a single moment, because it helped me find the deepest love, and above all else it showed me that an angel will always be an angel, even when the world calls him Satan.
Until a few months ago, I lived under the light of God.
I had a life I enjoyed and I walked in the daylight from dawn until dusk.
I'd leave home early, before sunrise, and walk into the countryside. And as the sun came up, I'd marvel at its beauty and take deep comfort in the tears of happiness that fell from my eyes.
As I walked I felt like I was walking into heaven. The world became timeless. I was content. And at peace.
The sky looked vast. And I felt happy. I had almost limitless energy. At least, I had not found its limit. And I'd walk. And during those years, I spent more money on boots than on tyres for my car. I felt like my body was the vehicle while I journeyed, and I needed nothing more.
Eventually, as per my routine back then, I'd end up in a city, and walk the city too.
I felt God was watching me and approving of my life and everything in my mind, heart and soul felt balanced and right and pure.
I loved life.
I loved myself.
And for a time, for those six years, I felt I had everything I needed within myself.
I felt free.
As I ventured into the city, my first port of call was always coffee to welcome the morning. I knew the most wonderful places, where I could sit and watch the world, and gaze at the sky. I was like a child seeing the father of Christmas flying through the air in his sleigh the way I gazed at the heavens. I loved the light. I adored it.
And when the sun came out, I had to stop the tears rolling down my face. For how do you explain to those passing by that the sun has such power over you? Who could possibly understand that? Sadly, only the few, but the few, to my soaring heart, still remain within life's blessing.
Last year, during winter, I sat with my coffee outside a coffee shop, marvelling at the overcast sky and the briskness of the air. And a lady in her 30s, noticed me.
And when women stare, you have to wonder if you've got a coffee cup with a hole in the bottom. You might be sat there happy with your image, all the while you've got a piss-shaped coffee stain appearing on your crotch. So I checked the crotch and no issues there phew. She continued to stare and as I didn't appear to have pissed myself, I started to enjoy her attention.
She gazed at me. I didn't return her favour. I didn't need to. We were connected in a different sense. We enjoyed each other. I drank my coffee. She drank hers. Her gaze never left me. Not an instant. And as I left, as I glanced in her direction, we shared a single beautiful moment. And it was glorious. Really, no words. For she saw the sky too.
I moved deeper into the city. I seek the homeless to add a little care to their days. I gift them money and know many by name. Some have become friends and ease my journey as even the most desperate and dangerous are kind to those who help and love them. And I do, love them. They add to my heart as much as I to do to theirs.
The city I walk in, I've known for a long time, and I've known it in many ways. I've seen it in many ways. And these days, everything you could possibly imagine you need or not need is there. You can buy an autograph of a person in a faraway land that you've never met, or ever will, and it will cost more than the price of a ticket to fly halfway around the world. You can buy technology that allows you to speak to anyone in the world that can be held inside your ear. This is wondrous, and I equip myself with everything an urban explorer at this age needs, or thinks he needs.
Do I need my wife to talk to me through a microchip every half hour wanting updates on where I am, what I have seen, what I'm doing next, and when will I reach wherever? No. But it's nice.
Eventually, I'd get lunch in one of the great places I keep a mental list of. Not because the food was any different than anywhere else, but because I loved the surroundings. To be with people. To enjoy the life of those around you. I'd travel with books and find corners of solitude amongst people and read. I was so happy. It was perfect for me.
And then I'd travel onward.
I'd always have a final destination. A loved one's home. Often staying overnight with them, before returning to my wife the following day. And that life, that routine. It was the best time I'd ever had, and I believed I'd be happy in that routine for the rest of my life. It's all I needed. I'd found my perfect balance. I was at peace with God. I was at peace with Satan. I was whole.
Until a few months ago.
I lost someone. My wife and I lost someone. My wife managed her grief in her own way.
I managed my grief in my own way. I hadn't considered breaking my abstinence and feeding as a way to ease my own grief. It hadn't crossed my mind.
A few weeks later, on October 31st — All Hallows' Eve of all dates, I'd gone to bed, fallen asleep, and had a lucid dream. I had full awareness of myself within it. And by my side was Satan, showing me a version of myself feeding. And as I watched this unfold, I felt every sensation of the act itself as I watched myself feed. I felt all of it from start, to finish, and it was so overwhelming that even in the dream, I'd already decided I was going to feed in waking life.
That morning, there was no doubt in my mind about arranging a feed. Not at home. Not with my wife. Not at that time. Elsewhere.
I was on a rail track with no brakes. I justified breaking my word to God and my promise of abstinence by leveling it at the deep sense of sorrow I held due to the death of my loved one.
I'd lost people before but not like that, and not as quick. It took me to a place of sorrow in my heart that I didn't know existed. And I didn't think about the implications of how breaking my abstinence would affect my life at that time. It just wasn't in my mind.
I'm feeding again.
I'm no longer whole. I never will be without God balancing my darkness.
I'm simply not strong enough to pull myself back into the light yet.
I need to prove myself to God.
Again.
I see Him at the edge of the shore of this ocean of blood I bathe in. Watching.
Waiting for me to find the strength to swim towards Him. I can abstain.
Again.
Perhaps my path never truly leads away from the dark and is but a simple circle. And as a circle, can my plight ever end? For I have been here before, time and time upon time.
Satan has always held Hell's door open. Not only to enter, but to leave.
You have to want to leave.
And that is the strongest chain and padlock of all.
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I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out. This isn't a new or recently written blog.
This blog contains some possibly unsettling themes relating to mental health.
I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out. This isn't a new or recently written blog.
Marked: The day I met my wife.
Many years ago, I was sitting by a canal that ran through the city I lived in. I'd got myself a beer and was chilling out when a man came up to me. He was rather overweight, and started chatting to me.
I kind of liked him from the moment I met him, but I felt something was off about him. I'll call him MG. He seemed warm enough towards me, but he certainly had an air of menace.
Nonetheless, I quickly warmed to him. I guess I just plain liked him. We chatted for a while about nothing. And after a while, he invited me to a private meeting. It really was like that.
I thought yeah, right, fuck off. I didn't say that. And I didn't go to his meeting.
I think months later, I'd pretty much forgotten about him, and he turned up again to the canal side. It was my place, I spent a lot of time there. I found it peaceful.
Anyway, MG turned up again, he'd got himself a beer and sat at my table. I didn't mind. I felt that I liked him. I knew there was something off about him and I didn't care. I was already messed up in my own head through childhood trauma, and I wasn't about to think bad of other people just because they seemed strange.
All he wanted to talk about was his meeting again, and I was in that kind of 'not giving a fuck about anything' mood and said yes, I'd come along. He told me when and where and, as it turned out, the meeting was less than a ten-minute walk from the canal where I was sitting at the time.
The following Saturday afternoon, I went along to the meeting by myself, held in a pub's basement they'd hired.
MG had told me what was going on. That they were into vampirisms. I understood. I understood they were nutters. I didn't go in their blind. I just didn't care.
Because I wanted to die. I was so fucked up. I was looking for my own death and was too weak to kill myself. I wanted someone to do it for me. I thought I'd get the shit beaten out of me, maybe raped, robbed, killed, I was so far gone in my head I wanted my life over.
I went through the pub, almost empty, down the stairs into the basement, and met what I thought was a lot of rather glum-looking people stood around not really talking to each other. Some were attractive, others not so much. Various ages. No one stood out.
I mean it was hardly Underworld where the vampires are sat around in skin-tight latex. Although all this was before Underworld was a thing and vampires had suddenly become attractive in popular media.
Anyway, despite being suicidal, I still had a bold personality and stood in the middle of the crowd, twenty people or so, and said ...
'Right, who is going to introduce me around!'
It was provocative but what the hell?
Instead of me getting murdered, one of the fellas asked a woman who was sat in the corner at a table behind the entrance to the basement I'd just walked through to introduce me to the people there.
And her first words were:
"Why does it always have to me?"
But she was fucking beautiful. And if you are a man reading this, then most likely you will have met a woman at some point in your life that instantly pulled on your heart. The kind that can make you feel like weeping a bit, along with an indiscernible heartache for her. That was me then, for her. I was fucking thunderstruck. I felt like falling to her feet and begging her to acknowledge me. And she knew it.
She introduced me around. I said all the right things, hello, how do you do and all that and tried not to make a dick of myself, but all I wanted to do was talk to her. Even her perfume made me feel like crying.
Despite how she looked, I found her very acidic really. She had no airs or graces about being nice to me. She actually sneered at me, even snarled at me. I'm not kidding, I don't remember her smiling at me once the day we met.
We chatted. I can't remember what about. Things were feeling surreal. I felt like I'd taken drugs. I wasn't quite with it. I listened to whatever she was saying, but I wasn't really quite there. I wasn't in control of the situation or the conversation and I sat there like a kid being talked at. I spent hours there, yet it felt like it was over in minutes. I think it got to around 5:00pm and the other people in the meeting started to leave.
At that time, I was a teenager — over the age of consent — and the woman took a real interest in me, and fuck knows why, because I had nothing to say to her. I had nothing to offer.
Then, she fucking broke my heart. She fucking kissed me. Right on the neck. Right on the fucking neck.
I started crying. Oh, I sobbed. I really fucking lost it. Really lost it. She took me into a corner and held me. Took ages. Really fucked me up. I was in such a mess.
Eventually, I calmed down. I felt a bit humiliated. Not a bit. Deeply. I felt like rubbish TBH. I wanted to just leave and lick my wounds.
I didn't bother saying goodbye to her. I didn't even look at her when I started to make my way to the exit.
But she grabbed hold of me and told me to come back the next week, to the weekly meeting, not ask, told. And she said it in a way that made me feel like she really cared. No one had ever used that tone for me before. Genuine concern. For me.
The following week was hell. I spent most of it in bed crying. I couldn't sleep, I didn't eat much. Every morning I woke up. I started crying because all I needed to do was see her again. It was pure torture.
The days went by. One by one. Hated it. Just awful. Harrowing. My heart felt physically painful. I yearned to see her again so much.
Eventually, the weekend came. Saturday. The meeting day. And by that time I felt worse than ever.
I just felt that things at the meeting would go badly for me. She'd be there. And she'd probably have some guy all over her, she was so attractive, and I'd be sat in a corner looking at her, and probably going into a toilet cubic to cry. I had my misery all planned out.
I went along to the meeting. By that time, I just felt numb. I was all cried out. I wasn't even sure she'd turn up. I'd planned to leave the meeting if she wasn't there and go back to the canal by myself and stay there. Thought I might even throw myself in.
But she was at the meeting.
And she was chatting with some other people.
And when she saw me she left them and took me into a corner.
And we spent the afternoon together.
She held me.
I couldn't stop crying.
I nuzzled into her and fell asleep smelling her perfume. I'd never known such peace in my life. That afternoon still holds too much peace for me to ever put it into words.
That evening she took me to her house along with her sister.
She made me dinner.
She gave me wine.
Her sister left.
And as soon as her sister left, she asked me to go to the bathroom with her because she wanted me to give her a massage.
Despite my absolutely messed up head, I was up those stairs like a whippet.
I got naked, she did, and oddly she lay on the bathroom floor next to the toilet. I didn't give a fuck if she was lying in pig shit at the moment and I climbed on top of her and gave her my best massage, which was shit because I was a teenager and I hadn't a clue what I was doing. The massage lasted all of two minutes, and we ended up in the bath together. Then we ended up in bed together.
She climbed on top of me and I even wasn't surprised that she pulled out a pair of handcuffs from underneath her bed. I just stuck my wrists out. I didn't even need to be asked. I watched her irises dilate as the ratchets closed. I saw them change, not instantly, not a blip from brown to black, more the way a camera lens aperture opens, slow, steady and with purpose.
_________________
Content removed - I was introduced to blood letting for context.
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I moved in with her almost right away. I was living with her, full-time, my previous life and everything in it, were lost to me very quickly. I didn't give any of it a passing thought. I was with her. I was owned. It felt like that from the start. It is like that right at this moment as I type this today. And I couldn't live any other way.
The meetings continued. I wasn't her equal. I have never been, and I never will be, and I'd never want to be. I belong at her feet. I need to be at her feet.
But the meetings continued. And we went along together.
I got to know the people at the meetings. They welcomed me in ways they hadn't before I'd been taken. And believe me, I was not in a relationship with a woman, I was property, I belonged to her, I did and still do, and if you have ever known what that feels like, you'll know it holds more inner value than owning the entire Earth. To be owned. It's indescribable.
She became my world. She is my world.
And on reflection, the hell I went through the following week after she kissed me on my neck — just frigging swooped, ducked right under my chin and planted one on the left side, right on the fucking artery, I can understand that now. At the time I thought I was just a depressed kid, but no, she'd captured my heart.
And even right at this moment - she isn't in the room I type this - yet as I type these words, all I can smell is her perfume from that day.
The day we met.
The day I was to be gifted her love.
And here I am today sitting in her/ our house. The same house she brought me into all those years ago, now writing about the first time we met.
Very little in this room has changed since the first moment I sat down on her sofa feeling a little intimidated.
She is my very breath. I never knew when I met her, when she first kissed my neck, what it actually meant. I'm smiling with tears in my eyes as I write this, because I didn't know then, but I know now, her kiss was her mark.
If I ever lost her, I knew even at the beginning of meeting her, I'd never allow myself to feel that pain. I'll never need to feel that. I'll be gone too.
Sigil - I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out. This isn't a new or recently written blog.
Usual disclaimers, part fact, part bullshit, part something else. It's a disease. A delicious attention seeking disease.
Some months ago, I came close to taking Satan's final marks on my flesh. Two sigils on my chest through a scarification process.
The templates were created and sized for my chest.
What the sigils look like doesn't matter for this blog.
The templates were placed on my chest and my first thoughts were, you know what? These look fucking awesome. They suited my chest perfectly, one on each of the pectoralis major muscles.
It might sound severe and all kinds of weird and OK, it is, but I was still having fun with it.
I went to the mirror and looked at myself and the designs and thought cool, I love them, and I continued to admire myself a bit more, knowing I wouldn't get much chance to show them off in public short of getting thrown in a loony bin.
And I have to say, even the templates alone were starting to affect me, in a really indescribable way. I don't quite have the words. I'm not sure words have been created to offer a description. It was a combination of exhilaration tempered with an urgency to throw my lunch up. It wasn't a very pleasant feeling at all and my head felt like it was filled with helium.
Nonetheless, I was set to go ahead with the scarifications and settle myself down for the process.
I blog about vampirisms, but there's so much more, and while typing up this blog today I had to chuckle because sometimes real life is just like this website, the Vampire Rave. Here you are a creature of some description based on your level and out here in the real world, there are all kinds of power-ups you can get on top of your vampirisms, and come what may, I was ready for mine.
All this was going on a few weeks after I lost a loved one. I'd started feeding again, and I was in my deepest "what the hell!" mood going, I just wanted to bury myself inside hell, it was the only place I knew where my grief couldn't follow me, so what do I do? Yup, let's get scarified.
Anyway, I'm there trying not to throw up. Those templates, they just suck power out of hell, and it's hard to rein them in at first.
And then the world dropped out of my existence.
If anyone has ever had any experience of God getting right in the same room as you and giving the severest of warnings possible? Well, that's what happened to me.
My stomach dropped to the floor and my brain was filled with terror over what I was about to do.
And despite all the crap I get up to in life — all the consenting adult stuff, God made it solemnly clear that if I took the marks, through scarification into my flesh, I'd be lost to Him. Forever. No rewinds. No second chance. A final and irrecoverable goodbye.
I have to say, I don't often feel terrified, but I fucking did then. Shit. I felt like I was about to throw myself off a cliff.
Also, the demons had turned up for the induction party and were pulling me one way while God didn't pull me at all. He waited.
Bone deep scared.
I saw the deep chasm that awaited me.
I saw the life of the deep.
And the edge I was on.
The demons pulling me over it.
And God behind me told me it was the final choice. A final and irrevocable choice.
And despite all this going on? Guess what I was thinking about? Despite being shit scared I was thinking damn, I'm not going to get these awesome designs on my chest now!!!! That's right, all that was going on and all I wanted to do was to jazz my chest up with some rocking designs. I'm an arsehole.
So I decided there and then to refuse the scarification, then some other things happened that I couldn't type. It wasn't exactly a 'hi & bye' scenario. However, I refused. I moved away from the edge.
I chose God.
Things calmed down pretty quickly then. The templates simply became templates and the helium head and throwing up stomach issues vanished, and I pulled the plates off my chest. Kinda looked at them lovingly, but they're not worth losing God. What is? I fuck around with the blood, and he's been forgiving of that, but the Sigil is something else.
You may think my refusing Satan would have grave implications for me, and perhaps in some cases it's true. Satan should never be underestimated or misunderstood and anyone who disagrees, is a fool.
However, I refused, and have gone on with my life since then.
On no!! Why didn't Satan 'Omen 2' you and cut you in half in an elevator????? For dissin' his party and ruining everything???
In answer, I'm often reminded of a film The Devil's Advocate and its ending. After a character refuses Satan, as I did in that instance, Satan simply created a path into the person's future where he would be faced with the same choice again, perhaps endlessly, until he fell and took Satans offer.
Let's face it, it was my second attempt at taking the Sigils. The first time I went further, and I begged God to save me during the process. He ... saved ... me.
I mean how much love can God have for a person?
God, Satan. Their depths are unfathomable. And that's coming from someone who takes holidays in hell. I did go to heaven a few times. It might sound crazy in a blog, but what the hell?
Unfortunately, I haven't been invited back, sadly.
Like I mentioned in a different blog. I'd climbed to the top of the snakes and ladders board and fell to the bottom several months ago. I'm about three rows up atm, and there is a big snake coming up this weekend, so I'll probably drop off the fucking board lol.
This isn't a new or recently written blog. I'm uploading content from offline to flesh my VR journals out.
Usual disclaimers, part fact, part bullshit, part something else. It's a disease. A delicious attention seeking disease.
I went to see Red. To bleed. Her, or me. I'm never quite sure which way we will end up. But I aim for either way. Either way is OK, I guess? Depends on my mood. I suppose the clinical term would be something like 'Oh my gosh you are a complete fuckup get some help you sicko!' Accepted. And an accurate diagnosis.
I just don't care.
Red is as bad as me. Worse. So much worse. She is the kind that watches you, just watches, instinctively, like an animal with eons of experience in dealing with anything and everything, and smiling while she does it.
Does she scare me?
It's like being dangled over the biggest, darkest, deepest hole in existence while looking at the expression on her face, often.
Does she scare me?
Like strapping a hand grenade onto my face, pulling the pin, and living through the last few seconds before my head gets blown off.
She is a demon. Older. Deeper. Deadly. They don't make words for what she is. Yet, she is mine. I'm hers. We are together. Joined. Spliced. Where does air stop meeting air? Water stop meeting water? How do you split a flame apart? We are a reflection of each other, yet not for a moment equal. I am an atom, a molecule, I've said it before in other posts, and it's all I've got here. I'm just a molecule, no rhyme, no reason, I just orbit her, helplessly. She could burn me alive, and I'd die happy knowing my last moments were with her — forget my wife — my wife is in another dimension when I'm with Red. Am I a cunt? Yes, I am. Sometimes I won't answer the phone when my wife calls when I'm with Red. You think I can be neck deep in blood and manage to switch into a frame of mind where I can pick up a phone and say hi? Uh, uh!
In vampirisms, you don't get to 'play' at being a monster. You get to 'be' a monster. And when you 'are' a monster, you don't get to 'not be' a monster just because your wife phones up wanting to know if you've got any more socks that need washing.
Anyway, I wanted to fight, for blood. Red was up for it, two vampires on a Wednesday afternoon with nothing better to do than bleed for each other.
We had some incense burning. Real, real, real nice stuff. The kind that makes you feel like your heart is breaking for the girl you are with, while trying not to spontaneously burst into tears. Her scent. Her smell. My heart is bleeding for her. Bleeding. Just bleeding.
Everyone has their favorite tunes and for quite a while Red and I chose to bleed, play and screw to Nightwish. Or more accurately, the music chose us, captivating. Perfect, right? Fits into our minds and our moods perfectly.
The whole discography, always is ready. No other. Call it routine, call it pattern, call it ritual, it has to be that way. Nightwish has become a part of us. Like incense.
Starting with Tarja Turunen and moving onto Annette Olson’s work and beyond. If you understand what's wanted, then you understand. I'm not explaining here. It's simply personal preference.
It's not all about blood, and Red and I love to drink absinthe. And I mean that. Love. Not just drink. Love. Anise. We have a deep emotional connection to it. Yeah, yeah, Dracula drinking absinthe. I've seen the movie. My connection to it? Honestly I don't know? I don't remember. I don't even remember trying it for the first time or even why. But now and for a long time, I've been in love with it. I think it's to do with association. I've shared my deepest, most moving, loving, most emotional times — deep deep tears — while drinking absinthe with my beloved ones. I'll drink anything, but on emotional occasions, there's only absinthe. Without it, I feel like a loved one is missing.
And I have to say, we'd managed to totally fuck ourselves up drinking it before we'd even started playing with each other.
We played in the shower room. Spacious. Everyone needs a play room, a favorite room, and since even vampires don't generally like fucking up their house when they need to get a little fruity, it's best to have a place you can contain yourselves in. Especially when you know your head is about to take a vacation from whatever little bit of sanity was left in it.
Red and I started off nice enough. Taking in the whole package we created. The incense, the music, the sounds and the smells, how it changed the ambience of the afternoon.
Boo!
Let's start dripping some insanity on the blog, like a delicious thick dark gravy. I'm talking demons, I'm talking fangs, and it's all down below!
For me and for the reasons stated below, everything I started to see that afternoon became tainted with a purple hue.
My inner demon - {live demon, not a metaphorical one} - had woken and thrown me into the passenger seat.
My sight changed to a black-purple hue, it's beautiful and inside myself all I can do is try not to lose it and scream, because looking at the world that way is so overwhelming. So beautiful, yet so heart-wrenching.
Next thing to go is my sense of smell. All I can smell is blood. Overpowering blood. From where? From her! And then, bye, bye, me, and hello, demon. Do I care? Do I fuck? I'm still in there, here? It gets confusing even typing this. I'm like an obscure patron sat in the corner of a theater watching a show performed on the stage.
I'm tucked away, unnoticed, yet I'm still a part of the experience. I get to experience the whole thing, live the whole thing, but the big boy is running the show at that point, not me.
I'm a plus one in my own body.
And when I'm tucked away as I have just described? I never wish to be anywhere else. I'd rather be there/ here tucked away than living with my own wife. She knows it, and welcomes it. I bet you find that confusing.
I want to be held by my demon and carried by him. I don't want to come back out. Do I want to stay there/ here? Hidden away, protected, where no one can reach me, he pushes me so far down I'm barely conscious. And nothing has ever felt better to me than that.
And there I stay, as an observer. I have some control, not much, nor want it. I still feel emotion, deeply, yet it's not my show in those times, and that afternoon, it was his.
And there Red and I were. Two demons facing off on each other, half pissed on absinthe on a wet Wednesday afternoon.
Round two.
Not really round two. More like round 5428339 but who is counting? I'd have to go back into the decades. But we can't go there because when you start talking about actual time scales, you get 'Eww you crazy!'
I went at her. I wanted to ground her, fuck her, and she pulled a small chain out of her pocket, and dangled it in front of me. Just a simple chain, a foot or so long, the kind you get in pet stores for dog necks. And it halted me in my tracks. DEAD STOP. Like a train smashing into a buffer. She raised her eyebrows and I felt wave after wave of I don't know what, endorphins? Not really, a beautiful soothing tingling wave that emanated deep inside my groin and spread up through my abdomen and reached into my chest. And I was gone. I was lost. I just stared at her. I'd lost my inner predator utterly. Even the demon inside me had gone belly up. I sat on the floor in front of her like a child expecting a lesson from a school teacher, wide-eyed and pretty empty-minded. Awe, fear, anticipation. Certainly deep and beautiful needful love, but so much more.
She gently pulled my arms behind my back and chained my wrists together. She rolled me onto my side and fed a leather collar around my neck. I'd lost the ability to speak at that point and just rested my head on the floor staring at nothing and murmuring, just totally overcome.
I fell into a trance-like state. Not one of helplessness, but I just wasn't there anymore. I didn't know where I was. I was just lost inside a beautiful little place inside my mind. It wasn't even all that sexual. It was more like feeling so loved that I'd ended up on the verge of tears.
I put my head on her lap, she stroked my hair.
Tears fell from my eyes. I don't know why, not happiness, not exactly sadness, something inside that needed to come out. Just something. Some release, some emotion. I wanted to stay like that forever. I was in my perfect place, my own little version of heaven. I just needed it. I drew my knees in and curled up, I felt utterly wanted, I felt owned.
I buried my face in the fabric of her skirt and breathed it in, wet from my tears. I became mesmerized by the scent, it smelled fresh yet also like something from my childhood and each breath I took seemed to suck in the entire universe. I wasn't even sure what decade I was in then, let alone the year.
Red took the remote for the stereo and changed the song to Forever Yours while my head stayed upon her thigh.
She'd have caused me less damage if she'd taken a sledgehammer to my head.
That song was the song I shared with my now dead girlfriend. My Baby. She died last October. I'm getting a lot better dealing with her not being in my life now, but Forever Yours was one of the songs I played endlessly shortly after her death, for months after.
Red hurt me playing that song, hurt me.
I knew the song was coming up on the CD, although I didn't expect it to be directed towards me as a weapon. She used it to crack my heart open like a walnut while pissing on the contents and laughing while she did it.
How do I explain how I felt? Deep pain. Anguish, so much emotional pain it ends up topping itself out into numbness.
And while my breath was hitching in my chest, Red pushed her fingers through the back of my collar, increasing the pressure around my neck, which moved up into my face and then my head, slowly building until I wondered how long before I'd pass out.
I went to Red's place for a fight and within minutes she had me emotionally broken and all but knocked out. I surrendered to her completely.
I surrendered to her a lifetime ago.
Everything we've done since then is just details.
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I had to remove this section for VR posting —
Sexual nature for context.
Followed by one or two spicy interactions.
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... I had started to feel real fired up. I wanted free from the chain and I wanted that collar off my neck and I wanted to fucking bite.
I snarled at her, growled at her, sneered at her. I bared my teeth, and she matched my violence equally, stocking my fire.
It wasn't anger, not quite lust, it was pure primal fucking rage. She had me chained, like an animal, and I fucking ached to be free.
She's a vicious girl when her buttons are pushed, and I know all of them, and I can make her elevator go up and down all day long. I pushed them, like an organist giving his best performance, and she howled. She should have gagged me. She missed a trick.
She didn't hit me. She beat me. Beat me. Hard. And I mean fists. Hard little fists. Hit some bones too, and started pounding on the top of my skull. And I just wanted to fucking bite her, and the more she hit me the more I just wanted to sink my teeth into her fucking neck.
Now vampire girls are strong. Stronger than men. They're basically demons with boobs. And she took that collar from my neck, and fucking sunk me, right in, full length, and like a frigging dude taking it up the ass for the first time — it made my eyebrows raise to the top of my head.
She bled me, like a person-sized leech. Game over, she won. I lost my instinct, I lost my fight, I became subdued, tired, sleepy, tranced, like I'd been shot with a fucking horse tranquilizer. I was a bag of blood, nothing more, and felt like one. A slightly self-aware bag of blood. She fed, enjoyed it rather than going near my drain tube.
I felt like a kitten, needing its mother's milk. Yet in a perversely revised fashion, instead of me needing the milk, I NEEDED TO BE THE MILK.
I fell back into the state of mind I'd been in when she first chained me. Submissive, vulnerable, edging towards tears and need, helpless, lost.
I had no more fight left in me, I was done. It was over. My demon didn't win, I know he didn't want to. My demon is as submissive as I am, or as perverted depending on the POV.
Fair play though. I'm not saying I'd have won on a fair playing field, been there, done that, lost years upon years of those games.
Yeah, the scores:
I got chained up
I got fucked up mentally
I got beat up physically
I got bitten
And I got strangled.
And nearly knocked out.
And her?
I did manage to wet her thigh with my tears.
Like I said, I am a molecule orbiting her pleasure.
My demon, who has danced with Red's demon, loved her demon, long before mine and Red's mortal bodies were ever conceived. Our fleshy bodies are just along for the ride these days. And when Red and I are dust on the ground, our demons will dance their eternal dance in hell. Or find other people, other bodies, most likely, to live in. I hope they find each other again, and again, and again, through time for eternity.
I have my bruises, a cut lip, some other issues I'm caring for, nothing I don't deal with regularly. My first aid kit could outfit an ER department. Almost. With the things my family get up to, we buy each other med supplies for birthdays.
And now? Well ... find a black space on this page. That's how empty I feel, atm.
The more I play, the more I need to. The more I need to, the less time I can spend before needing to play again. Until all I do, is play. I've been there before a billion times in my life and here we are again.
And the weekend is coming up, and I've got my ticket to hell. Hell. Funny. Nothing there but beauty and love. The deepest kind.
Need it. Can't think about anything else now. I know where I'm heading, I've been there before.
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