Supernatural
2008-08-04

Topic: PreludeGhosts swirl in the endless ether of times remembered and times best forgotten.   These are the memories of our failures, of our hidden half truths and outright lies.   So often we fall asleep at night and dream of our heart’s desires.   These are often the dreams of light and love, of laughter and romance; the boundless joys that bind mankind together.   But for some of us, not so fortunate in life’s grim game, or perhaps too far past the bounds of mortal compassion, these dreams become reflections of our heart’s darkest desires.   Some would call them nightmares, twisted imaginings of horror and fear, but nightmares are the products of a guilty conscious, a means to punish ourselves for the small evils we’ve done or the dark imaginings we’ve thought.   To some of us these dark dreams of corruption and vice are the only comfort we find at night, the only comfort we find in life.   These dreams, awash in blood, become a mirror of what thrills us, of what allures us, of the darkness within us that we choose to embrace instead of scorn.
    Somewhere in this wide world of slumbering night, such a mind dreams now.   This is the mind of a man who’s lived his life in the shadow of a family who scorns him, of a society that won’t accept him or his ways.   This is the mind of a broken and twisted man, a sculpture of delicately hostile beauty, crafted by the subtle nuances of deceit and treachery, master artisans both in this world we’ve built.   This man has lived day by day in the role of a mundane businessman, no one special, barely even an average Joe.

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  In his time away from the bustle of work, a job in which he constantly deals with the back-stabbers, the sellouts, and the good-natured liars that control today’s economy, he’s immersed his mind in a world of dark fiction, a place where the blatant evil is refreshingly apparent in comparison to the lurking shadows of the real world.   As he’s become more and more obsessed with the idealism of serial murder and the raping of innocent young flesh, of innocent young minds, his grasp on the concepts of this world has begun to crumble slowly away.   He’s begun to wonder what it would be like if the world were really so, not realizing in the security of life as he knows it, that to some people the world really is so.   This is a natural step in the thinking of many people, and of course nothing to be feared if say for instance you have had such thoughts yourself.

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    However, if, like this man’s tortured mind, you begin to think that perhaps the world would be a much more enjoyable place if it more closely resembled this dark world of fiction, then fear in abundance you should.   By that time though, it’s far too late for most to realize the course their thinking now leads them to.
    This night, our dreamer has read an especially alluring tale of sundered innocence and corrupted youth.   He’s paced his sparsely furnished apartment for hours after the conclusion of this story, thinking dark thoughts and treading carefully around new concepts, an odd sort of idealism that calls to something primeval in his blood.   He’s replayed the most exciting tidbits over and over in his mind, seeing the wretchedly treacherous villain thrusting himself into the tight confines of a screaming virgin’s innocence.   He’s imagined the trickle of blood seeping between forcefully parted legs, so slender in their youth.

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  He’s imagined the streams of salty tears trailing from watery blue eyes maddened with pain and horror.   Then, so suddenly, yet so subtly that he dare not pause to notice, he’s become more than a spectator to these eerie scenes.   He’s become the perpetrator of these heinous crimes.   It’s become so maddeningly easy to envision himself taking what he wants from that blue eyed, blond haired beauty.   He’s stopped replaying those exciting scenes and started creating new ones of his own.   He’s likewise begun to rationalize these thoughts, making it seem alright to think such things as these, and of course he’s begun to believe vehemently in these rationalizations.   He’s realized that he truly wants to do these things, and this realization frightens him, but not enough to stop those maddening thoughts of tender white flesh beneath his coarse probing fingers.     With a frustrated sigh, our dreamer has tried his best to push aside such thoughts, and has thrown himself upon the ragged sheets of his tousled bed.   He’s tossed and turned, unable to find comfort, for those bloody sadistic thoughts still force a throbbing erection to remain, one he knows no amount of masturbation can remedy.

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    Finally, he’s drifted into restless slumber, and troubled dreams…
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