It was the day before you died.
“I die undefeated.”
That phrase was carved on my left arm; solid gold and looking as undefeated as the phrase itself to me.
“That’s good, I mean, you know what you are and what’s up with the world — that phrase might indeed sound oxymoronic, for the experience of dying has never really sounded undefeated; quoting what Sigismund III Vasa said as his last words on his deathbed, ‘contra vim mortis non crescit herba in hortis’. No herb grows in the gardens against the power of death. Maybe at some point dying left us not having any authoritative power over whatever we used to have to control the world and revolt against the virulence of the sun.” You said that to me, suddenly.
“And so what’s your point?” I then asked.
“You are you. You stay real, high on believing that you can stay undefeated when you die, unlike everyone else in this fundamental bogus-ravaged world.”
“Not that exaggerated, broseph.” I said. “I die everyday — almost everyday. Schopenhauer once said something regarding how every parting gives a foretaste of death; if everytime I part ways with someone I technically count as being dead, then I must be someone who has grown very accustomed of being dead for now.”
“Well, bringing it into that sort of perspective ain’t half bad. May I know who exactly you are?” you then asked in a cryptic tone. It’s funny you asked me who exactly I am whereas we have been half-souls for years. But what’s funnier is how you asked that question because you distinctively know that it’s only the society that perceives us as half-souls for neither of us has ever believed in considering anyone as an important presence.
“I am a dethroned disciple of the night of the wolves where the servants of the scintillating crescent ignite their torches of valiance. I am blissful as Deafheaven; be sure to spare me like a fast-paced blackgaze tune.” I answered as I spreaded my solid gold, shining wings that I am proud enough to name as A Winged Victory for the Sullen — named after that Erased Tapes ambient act.
“And also, you die undefeated.”
“While watching Derrida talking about love and death and how the death of love occurs when it’s one-sided?”
“You don’t die like a convoluted, artistically valued painting that wasn’t even made with the painter’s earnest soul immersed in it. People called you Overlord for a myriad of reasons, and you claiming to be devoid of inherent true soul isn’t one of the reasons — since self-schema can be deceitful at times, we all can never really be something we claim to be, anyways.”
You fucked my crescent up. I’m sure as hell that the water has always weighed that much as you walk under the solstice that happens to be that menacing to you. I laughed, at the servant of Belphegor sitting on his throne; at how several anarcho-punk bands that propagate anti-establishment ironically still depend on the force of capitalist swines that they can’t escape from; how everyone let themselves drown in obscurantism because they keep on rationalizing everything to build a social-constructivist world that refuses to give moral relativism and post-structuralism a try.
“Oh, like how you’ve always been sui generis to me? For you have never considered yourself as sui generis and never deemed yourself one — you’ve always felt like you’re one of the commoners.” I then responded to your words in a tone that sounds like I’m feigning cluelessness.
“If anything, I would not want to die on the hands of the Big Brother who’s watching us just for the sake of his regime.”
“But we’re not a 1984 character, comrade.”
After that last thing I said, I only managed to let out a pale smile and tried to shut myself up. I exhaled the smokes of my dope as my throat started to incinerate itself and you tried to break the silence.
“I, like, I really love Berserkr.” you said.
“Huh, sorry?” I settled myself with a look of confusion and mild indignation.
“My favorite track in Kvelertak’s most recent album Nattesferd. Been having a soft spot on songs about Norse mythology for years.” You answered.
“Thought it was me that you were implying.” I said with a facade of emotion again; this time a feigned disappointment. Just wanted to see your reaction, to be frank.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yeah, I did. For the reason why do I always think of you as sui generis, is because you have always seemed like this one causa sui deity that possesses absolute powers.”
“I am not as transcendent as the reflection of me that you have always envisaged inside your head as your very own creation that thrives into you, leading to you believing that it was really me.” You then said. “Thy kingdom come, I don’t generate within myself — I still submerge with the world as a part of it, as a Dasein, as Heidegger would say.”
“Undefeated for an end, my colleagues rebel with a cause. They manifest collectivist propaganda by the deed everyday for the sake of what they claim as greater good. And as for me, I am neither the rebel nor the cause. I do fight, my greatest love.. just not that obtusely. I am a servant of doom, a dethroning maleficence, high on believing but never low on dismantling — I’ve warned you.”
“Turns out you really represent what you claimed yourself to be when I asked you who you are. Maybe self-schema isn’t always that deceitful — now I’ll spare you like a blackgaze tune with heavily distorted crusts and thrashing overdrives. I’ll love you like you love Deafheaven and Rilke. You have your wings, free thyself from being a servant of fraud.” you said — never have I thought that those words would become your last ones in the future.
“I’ll serve the heathens on the altar, my sui generis Overlord. One step ahead to become an Ubermensch for you.”
And then we drove.
And then we died.
No, only one of us died.
Life is a witch, and then you fly.
After a myriad of shots and excruciating aftertaste of the dope I smoked,
I came home wasted and unprepared on the middle of the night,
altering ways from the scatterbrained lunacy that turned Thy lords into victims.
Hoping that you’d be alright, I reaped the storms.
Thy kingdom come, and then the angel of death would say that your scream was deafening
and it crucified the hearts of many — it was not. It was a cry for help.
His obsolete scythe was the one that transpierced you.
And then I, in indignation over your demise, would cry for you, my greatest love.
Hallowed be Thy name — delirious and victimized, but still won’t cave in, that’s what you are.
Restless, in the speed of drones, I became a scavenger of the lightning, created histories on my own.
Come hell or high water, thy knights would reach the altar, be them my herd of warlocks.
Vanguarded by thrones, I am still into the wilderness.
For the serpents, they thrive into the darkest souls.
Dismantled, I wish for reigns to come.
Without power to invade, I am no lord.
(How I wish I were never in a dark descent.)
For the disciples of the knight, they would never come.
My blood rides the doom, Baphomet’s head is on the run as I drown myself into Thy scape of aether.
I thrashed myself the fuck down and then I ran onto Thy strongest fort as I wrote an eulogy about you whose life has been overtaken by eagles with decapitated heads.
I would wake up to blackgaze tunes and kvlt growls everyday and then mentally punch myself in the gut and your reflection would appear on the mirror conveying that you’re relieved I’m now a pacifist without violence and guns. A libertine at heart, I could never grow up the way anyone has ever wanted myself to be, that the world is also writing down elusive conundrums that scream at me as if they’re telling me to suffer louder. And despite the fact that you said my songs were disastrous and blackened crust repulsed you, it was always you on the front row on my gigs, screaming out loud that I was the only overlord you would sell your soul to. Stoned and severely injured, I thought the night you died was my night where I could finally stop being a servant of the discordant world for I thought you took me along with you to the transcendental world of death. Oy vey, what’s left is only the fact that we’re now worlds apart and the recording of your shoegaze rendition of my last song that you have always described as disastrous. My flesh is saying that;
1. Thy art is believing in the power of disbelief.
and 2. You dying as a servant has made me feel more enslaved than when I wasn’t on top of the world.
Come hell or high water, fight with thy heart.