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NOSFERATU, pathology of the undead, a monologue NOSFERATU, pathology of the undead, a monologue
by David Sparenberg
2010-10-31 08:09:09
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Pain is a broken mirror.  What?  You don’t believe that suffering is glass?  My eyes have been shattered by tears for many years.  Look!  Is this a human face?  No!  It is a mockery, etched in hell.

What demon, poisoned and sickened by life, who could have been saved from transformation to his evil self by one mercy of resurrecting love, sits now behind this thorny brow, bloat and filled with misery?  Brooding splinters have hatched within my corrupted soul.  The convoluted serpents of old, unhealing sorrows strike me with fangs of jagged shard.

Look, look!  Is any man made like this?  No!   But I am every man, yet I am none.  What gargoyle then is here, who could, like Quasimodo; the sad, disfigured saint of Notre Dame; ask of the world, “Why was I not made of stone?”  But stone I am and lack humility.

What is ‘Monster’?  A monster was once a man who has descended into the abyss of his sub-humanity.  Or else, ascended to the highest exploits of inhuman control and cruelty.  A brute can kill.  I am that demon who delights in the wild tango of torture.  Who, in dream or fantasy, has not danced as I have danced?  What lover has not licked the blood of his beloved from grinning, victorious lips?

Let he who is innocent of tyranny cast the first stone.  To all else, I open the veins of this delicious pornography of the undead.  Nosferatu!  It is the tree of shadows that grows in the savage garden of all living meat.  Blood is the juice of the greatest sacrament:  the addiction of life through the deaths of others.

My mirror is empty.  But yours, my friend, shows to you the truth.  You believe yourself the image of God.  But you are but my victim.  The bat of doom that flies in your eyes, smiles, confidently, with my face.

Look, look!  Look into my eyes.  There are women for whom sex is pain.  All their pleasure is in this pain.  Their arousal cannot be satisfied without the tasting of blood: their teeth and nails ripping the flesh.  Such souls of midnight passion belong to me.  Mine is the ancient Eros: the love of the grimace of death behind the mask of ecstasy!

I am Master.  What?  A master is one who has vanquished fear: the fear of death and the fear of punishment after death.  To conquer the fear and punishment, one becomes conquistador of fear, inquisitor of punishment.  Let any man whose courage is as desperate as once was mine join me, and I shall initiate that man into power…and freedom.  What then is the worth of the light of day?  The vampire is the King of Night.  Night Eternal!

God does not intimidate me.  I shall never enter his heaven.  And God does not seek shelter in the ruins of my earth.  We are but two plays, cast in different roles, on separate stages, governed by the same theatrical tricks.  Salvation?  Do not put your faith in such illusions of human vanity.

In this sad kingdom of terrible fantasies and fantastic horror, in this old castle of melancholy whispers and unspeakable memories; of sighs and cries, I am the god who saves only those who are condemned.

I bid you…welcome.

    
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