by Sarah-Anne Lawrence
©2003 Sarah-Anne Lawrence -- all rights reserved
I stare at the page. And it blankly stares back with a delusion that only I could produce. I contemplate what it is that I shall write, but the words evade me. Elude me. They stay there; mocking me, mocking my very existence. But that is all right, I tell myself, for I doubt that mere words could convey what I feel -- what I'm about to write next is so far gone that its very meaning has been lost...
I hear the music in the background, chanting, lulling me to join in its dark caress. Pulsating, swirling, carrying me away like a lost child, who is not afraid of what it might find. The music alone has become my embrace -- my cloak to shield from all that would harm me. Just like the night.
So many things, that one must take for granted, as I myself have done so many times, are now beyond me. I have lost them forever! Yet more still are now within my grasp. They are mine for the taking, and I shall not hesitate. For the pleasures they bring are beyond all mortal comprehension. For those that have experienced it, no explanation is needed -- and for those that have not, none is possible.
The night is becoming longer, my time is soon to arrive. I hear -- no, I feel its calling, with every ounce of my being. As darkness approaches, I feel the hunger rising. Long have I tried to fight it, for no reason other than my own pride. But I know it as well as any other being that thoughts such as these are folly, for none can resist the hunger of the night. None such as myself, that is. To try and explain it would be foolish, but when did I ever say I was not foolish?
It is the most unbearable yearning. And as it builds in intensity, you do not know at first what it is for which you crave, for your body cries out in longing for life itself. But life, in the natural sense, is unattainable. So you are driven mad. Mad by lust. Mad by hunger. Mad by fear. And your madness is driven by the thought that life being unattainable to you is a lie. And as you feel the fire pulsing where there should be blood -- it hits you. And you take it.
I take it.
The soft cool night air has lifted my burden a little, if only for a fleeting instant. The breeze, dancing as light as featherweight, now plays upon the voices of old. Twirling around my hair, I see it bend and twist the gold to curls; and I watch with a smile on my lips. It has been long since my muscles have moved this way, with a grace even I find astounding. So I do not expect you to appreciate the subtleness. Not quite yet. But never fear my sweet, for you will. Just like my pen upon this paper, the feelings are very real, and even more powerful. For wasn't it once said that the pen is mightier than the sword?
And I have seen the sword. Oh I have seen it; I have seen it all. Sword, stakes, cross, ankh, rose... have they not all the same meaning? At one time or another they did, each with a past and history as rich as decadent chocolate. And now the haunting echoes of a violin now play with me, forcing my body to move in the ways of old, twisting, turning, caressing your soul. It's almost at its peak; the night, I mean. Which means it is now time for me to be going, leave you to your slumber. Like an angel you are, in your silent perfection under the moonlight -- it's now for you I yearn.
But not tonight. Tonight I will choose another.
But leave you without a parting gift? You must know by now that one such as I would never dream of it. In my depths there is some hope of what may come to be, but I must write quickly. For the paper is lifting, leaving... as am I. I leave you this present my love, so that you may taste my rose, feed on it. Leave you I must, for the dawn is upon us, and you will wake. But think of me when you look to the sky, for when the stars spell out my name in the heavens, and you hear that sweet song; the song of the night, calling to you, remember:
I am lust.
I am hunger.
I am fear.
But I am also eternal life...
...and you know my name.