who i am20170507

There are those born into tragedy – and then there are the unfortunate few whom were born a tragedy. Cursed. A child conceived in the most unfortunate of circumstances, his arrival was not heralded as it should. Though for his part, he could not entirely lay blame onto his mother for her naivety. Who dare fault a young girl for falling in love with words whispered in the comfort of night. Cursed. The word itself often in the company of sin and commendation, they leave only a pungent taste to his lips; they are the rise and fall of the sea itself, restless as they roll through his mind. Long as he lived with them echoing in his mind repeatedly, that he cannot recall what it was like to live without the knowledge that he was a mistake. Contrary though they be to the words his mother murmured into his hair – glassy eyed, broken lips and matted hair that smelled of imported perfumes and honeysweet sickness. In her embrace, he found absolution from the harshness of a reality that beckons him. He was her little king. So entranced was she by his glittering eyes and cupid-bowed lips, melodious laughter he utters in the darkness of a bedroom that is cold and isolating – she could not help but love him, this boy who looked to be hewn from the embers of a fire, and made of starlight and celestial bodies. For his father, there was no inclination of doubt when he first laid eyes upon his heir, and it was he who said without conviction that his only son would be the end of them all.

Intolerant of his child, to look upon this young babe, one can only imagine the depth of the discontent he felt as he watched him grow into a personage that others deemed handsome. Gallant and noble, they praised him to be, a title unearned for he was naught. To have a bevvy of sins lavished onto him, yet still be called a good man was as insulting as it was blasphemous. Depravity dripping from his shoulders as readily as darkness laps at the heels of his feet, he managed, somehow, to appear holier than a saint. In her declaration that her son was born of stars and etherify, his father thought her right in that regard – daft and naïve though she be. Reece rose as easily as a falcon to the sky, unfettered by all that tethers the rest of them to their perch; in his nature, he was as lofty as the stars in the night sky – and as equally unattainable.

Man’s greats folly is not in his tendency to put his god onto a pedestal, but to place their hearts and other fragile beings onto their alter in hopes of forgiveness – to be absolved of their sins. In his testament that he son be a curse, Brutus was not wholly incorrect. Great power begets great ambition, and a man gifted with the powers to scorch the earth to cinder and smoke, to traverse between the mask of man and beast, is no exception. The greed within him had no bounds, as all wild things born of dark things and impropriety, his greed would swallow the world whole.

A tragedy was he. Within him there he was once a yearning for normality, a longing for the affections of a father who would give him anything but. There is no greater desire, and privilege, than to be simply understood and accepted. But as it was, he was not reared into the arms of humility and gentility. Heartbreak could be found between the batting of his lashes, the soft, lopsided curl of his smile between soft pants and the quiet sighs of exhalation from his victims, he indulged himself in the sweetness plucked from the trembling fingers of others. A cacophony of words whispered, praises and promises – he would be their salvation, if only for a time. And just as readily as he would dine upon the excess of affections from all the wrong sort, so did his greed grow; ardently and utterly without his permission or control. It was ravenous, this power, this desire – cold and cruel and blacker than the fathomless depths of the ocean. It is his pride, his vengeful hope, and blasphemous urge to leave his mark upon the world – to never be forgotten.

To be extraordinary, far beyond the norm while the bleeding child within him still croons humility and forgiveness. His ambition drives him, this boy made man, made monster – a phoenix risen from the ashes of his own demise, his design; his power feeds him, his pride nursed him and swallowed his enemies whole. He is cold and beautiful and void of love; yet still they come to him like the shadows of the hidden faces of the moon; relentlessly, possessively – brazen worshipers with their praises and their hatred, their numinous wonders and effervescent longing.

For in this this universe there is nothing more infinite than the greed of men and power.

my beloved20170507

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20170507 keeping tabs

what i'm like20170507

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20170507 behind the scenes

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a few scenarios20170507

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my beloved20170507