Ireland's OWN Myths and Magic

Gothic Child
—by Clandestine Amadana

In this interim, between humankind's ancient, inner destructive tendencies —
driven into us by the controlling claimant's of church, society, state, family even,
and modern humankind's accomplishment of constructive devolution of self,
humankind must rise from its twisted wasteland of nothingness; and learn:

— to control his or her own destiny
— to restrain his or her own pernicious tendencies
— to protect his or herself from the violative forces of others.

Aye, modern humankind is so far behind in attaining
his or her own personal karma to embrace, not abate,
that instinctive death wish. Why do we fight it?
You know death is like the beauty of dried,
preserved roses in a vase, you know it's true —
death's charming, yet fading, radiance appeals to us.

Thus, the door to death remains enticing,
like some perverse, yet remarkably alluring minotaur.
It sleeps there amongst the thorns...yet, listen it call us
call us to embrace the painglorious mystery of suicide.

Alas! I tell you! Suicidals are no cowards.
O Fool, think how brave one must be:

— to embower oneself into the unknown, with no fear
— to bravely accept humankind's innate death tendency
— to leave what is known, and enfold oneself in the ultimate bloody mystery.

"Come, Come, my Gothic Child," his Eminence, the Minotaur,
calls to me like a brilliant, kashmiriczeppelian lover...
"Come O Gothic Child o' Doom...it takes only one slice of pain,
to your lovely, lily anemic wrists...and then tranquility shall be thine forever."

Indeed, 'tis what you want Gothic Child. Be brave.