NotesOfDarkness's Profile at Vampire Rave.

Music is often the key that ignites the engine of my Quill. It holds an essential essence, through a single note, a passage, a rhythm, or lyrics. These blend seamlessly, twirling in step with what stirs me. It’s like a conductor lending voice to what’s often inaudible within me, an invisible thread tying me more intimately, more tangibly, to what my soul yearns to spill onto the page. This morning, it was a classical piece, Liszt’s “La Campanella,” especially when the notes surge and, in my mind, take the form of a fiendish waltz. But beyond being one of the many soils from which my ink often springs, sometimes music lets me read and hear the laments my shadows can’t clearly voice on their own. This morning, I heard them, I understood; it was sharp and precise, a message received loud and clear. A troubling truth, one I can’t, by lingering on it, find the slightest clue to unravel the problem it poses.
The truth is, I sometimes brush against the raw feeling that drives me to write, the intensity of my thoughts, the blaze of my demons, the choking smoke of my shadows that grip my throat, poisoning me from head to toe. This venom, this exquisite cyanide -made bile, hurls me with brutal force into the dark abyss of a well that holds my own reflection and every image I long to see come to life. Down there lies my alter ego, my most sinister, most feral self. But this morning, the music nudges me toward something new. I glimpse a reality that doesn’t shock me, isn’t unfamiliar, but until now, no words could give it meaning, a logical, coherent explanation. I knew this "something" was there, but I was never quite sure what it was. This morning, at last, I know.
I can draw out all the violence and blood my ink carries through my stories. These tales that temporarily set me free and, more often than not, leave me drenched when the final period seals the fate of the storyline I chose to put on paper. I realize, I understand, that despite all my earnest efforts to express the darkness through acts many would call unspeakable, horrific, sometimes downright vile, often dripping with blood-soaked shadow, I’ve never yet touched the bottom. That pitch-black depth that makes my head tip back, eyes rolling with craving, hands trembling with want, body thrumming with an energy that howls, snarls, screams to brutally fuck, to be possessed, to be shattered in the most excruciating way, as precise as my soul tries to articulate every single day.
The realization is stark, strikingly concise. No vocabulary, no dictionary holds the words that could, with the searing precision I’ve hunted for so long, capture the scenes vivid in my mind or the feelings that cling to them. Every word in existence, no matter the language, feels impoverished, outdated, feeble, cheap, and frail against what I truly long to depict. These images belong to another realm, to other entities, to something so shadowed it’s likely I’ll never manage to craft the stories I genuinely wish to create, no matter how fiercely I try.
The fucks, the rapes, the murders my characters commit, all the blood they spill, all the flesh they scatter; it still doesn’t match what dwells inside me. Just a faint echo, a few strokes of oil paint thinned by some unknown force that surely lives within me too. Is there a lock to shatter? A key neither I nor my shadows have yet found?
I know exactly where to draw my darkest, most sinister ink. I’ve confirmed it time and again. There’s only one well my pen can plunge into, emerging so profoundly inspired it spews ink like a scene from The Exorcist across my pages. A well that’s hard to reach, a trek through the woods of distant lands I can’t simply will into being before me, since those twisting, rugged paths don’t belong to me. I don’t know - or no longer know - but even though I hold the map and see where I must go to tap that essence, to unlock my darkness, even if that well stood open to me always, I’m not sure I’d find the words to, with the finest accuracy, breathe life into a story as bleak as the black hole from which all my tales daily emerge.
Maybe one day, maybe never. But even if no word feels true enough to convey the blood-soaked violence that drenches me when I write, at least the path to that sinister core is open, beyond the door I thought protected me, now smashed by axe and battering ram. This, since the day my shadow first read the words of a muse, one of those dark entities. So, maybe I should simply ask, how do I unlock this ? Or maybe, do you hold one of those keys?

MY COVEN

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