Verbal warfare through radical ideals

Posts tagged “depression

The Return of the Darkness and Evil

Stars filled the darkened sky, and the night was quiet. A man and woman lay face to face on a hill, sealed in warm embrace. Their foreheads pressing together, they breathed deeply in harmony. A resounding comfort could be felt surrounding the two of them, and they gripped each other tighter. This was a moment of relaxation, and it couldn’t be broken by anyone, or anything. Cold wind beat against the back of the woman, giving her a chill. She giggled, and the man leaned up with a grin to remove his long overcoat. As he draped it over her shoulders, they both looked up to admire the view. It was painted in celebration of their freedom this evening, and a brightly dotted skyline was a gift fit for anyone. The man reflected on this year of pain, which brought him to the top of this lonely hill in the countryside.

Visions of sorrowful family members appeared, all mourning the death of his recently deceased father. His grief however, was ignored. His love of darker music, evident to his devout family had pushed him out of their circle of importance. They shunned him, and looked down upon him as if he was not one of their own. His persona was just clothing that he couldn’t take off, and they treated him as an outsider for it.  Their condescending gazes cut through him like a razor, and in-turn shoved him into a closet, where razors themselves were his only friends. Severe depression coalesced with acute inadequacy, and only a sacrifice of flesh and blood kept the world from overtaking him. Forsaken by his kin, he wept alone in dim corners, while riffs tore viciously at his ears through an old pair of headphones. Cracking snares made his ears ring, and he listened to the comforting shrieking of a ghoul at the head of the band. Only these lyrics could understand suffering as he did. Only these few people could make an acceptable noise to play him through this slump. Only he could grasp the power behind the words, and bring a meaning of his own to them. Only through this sound could somebody love him.

The woman closed her eyes and flashed back to the surroundings that drove her to this hill. She recalled the office; the grey walls of flimsy plastic enclosing around her like a prison of the mind. False faces mingled with the magniloquence of narcissistic colleagues; it was an exercise where they all drowned each other in an effort to remain afloat in the ocean of white-collar purgatory. She sighed while spinning around in her chair. Boredom and insignificance clutched onto her like a sickness. She hated all of this. This day meant nothing to her, and the work she “accomplished” today would be the same chore she scorned tomorrow. She wanted to be in a crowd of that which is loud, breathing in sweat and alcohol as she screamed her lungs out at her favorite group on stage. The silence stabbed her in the temples, inducing a strong headache. Home was no consolation, at all. Either out of desperation or loneliness, she chose to remain with the man who simply noticed her first. He expected much though, and upon entering the door she knew that only housework and cooking awaited her, followed by copious amounts of faith-based guilt. If she was expected to remain his woman, she would eventually have no choice but to live under a creed she didn’t share, with pseudo-morals that he didn’t even follow. Her life was a deplorable sideshow; a regrettable story that only went in a circle. Death and taxes sounded much more friendly, so long as she didn’t have to witness part two. This was not how she imagined life would go at this point, and with love now ingrained as a tyrant who sought to strip her of her identity, she longed for a day where she could simultaneously be herself, and be with others who understood this virtue. She desired a life where she could be as loud as she wanted to, and say the words she denied herself daily. She snapped out of her daze, and out of her illusion of normality. She was not of the grey world. She was different. Tonight would change everything. She would change everything. She would show her true color (or lack thereof), and it was black.

The crowd in the club was rowdy and rambunctious; this show would be a night to remember, and the masses of people swarmed with excitement. A sea of black shirts comprised this concert, as is the law at all metal performances. The house lights became faint, and with it grew the sound of the people, now buzzing with glee. The squeal of a pick hitting the string sounded, and the room erupted into chaos. Bodies soared on a sea of outstretched arms, while bottles and clothing articles flew aimlessly through the air. It was a scene of perfect insanity, and just another day in the lives of Metalheads. As if by a spark of fate, strobe lights flashed endlessly, while two sets of eyes met across the room. A handsome guy with long dark hair caught pulsating glimpses of the eyes of a beautiful girl buried beneath strawberry curls from the far corner of the pit. The two wandered mindlessly toward one another, loss in a lapse of wonder. The pounding clash of cymbals and snares echoed against the apocalyptic riff, and the two lost souls came together in a minute of clarity.

On a hill miles and hours away, these two lonely children of the riff came together to enjoy the twilight after their unforgettable meeting at the show. This wasn’t just venting the rage, despair, and isolation they felt at the hands of others; this hill would be where they consummated their metamorphosis. The man pulled out a pack of smokes. Ejecting one cigarette from the box, he gripped it with his lips and reached into his other pocket to grab his matches. With a quick swipe across the striking surface, the match ignited and he lifted it to his mouth. Before the fire touched the end of the cigarette, however, the woman plucked the lit match from his fingers and ran off down the hill. When she reached the bottom, she turned around and waved to him. She swiftly crossed a parking lot and accidentally kicked over a can of gasoline haphazardly placed on the curb. With a flick of her wrist, the burning stick sailed effortlessly into the waiting puddle at the foot of a church. The woman bolted back across the lot and onto the grassy hill where the man sat waiting. As she took her seat next to him, she leaned her head on his shoulder, smiling from ear to ear. The man smirked, and kissed her on the head. Almost in unison, they began to recite the words of the father of black metal, as the chapel stood ablaze for all to see.

“Then the clouds of death shall gather
then the night shall always burn
then the ancient prediction comes true
and the bells of fate chaime
THE RETURN…”

Fenriz, early 90's

Fenriz, early 90’s

-Jake