The Poem of Namaah

I write these words with trepidation, for I know that in their telling I will reveal a terrible and shameful truth. And so I steal myself, not because I fear the judgement of you my reader, whose opinions mean little to me, but because to write these words I must clearly see this truth myself.

This ugly truth which I have hidden even from myself, so adeptly. This fearsome truth which strikes at the core of my being, so venomously. This shameful truth which proves my damnation, so deservedly.

For in the darkest desperation of my heart I have known a demon. And I have loved her.

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This love was birthed in secret shame, hidden even from my own sight by the dark cloak of depression which enveloped me. I could face this world no longer. I sought refuge from reality. I sought escape, even from myself. And in dreams which still haunt my waking life the siren song of the beautiful Namaah has called to me. And I have loved her even as she has corrupted me. Even as she has torn my life and mind apart.

To dream of worlds which could, but will, never be. Always dazzling, always afar, the beautiful Namaah. Stoking fires of desire and forging in them need, to scatter through my world like barren seed.

In hopelessness I have judged the world and found it wanting. And she has loved me.

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When once one turns one’s heart against the world and wishes it were otherwise, a door will open in the darkness. For this is her Art: to seduce the heart and mind with visions of the way the world ought to be, of how it could have been. Beautiful dreams which have already died, stillborn upon the soul of her willing victim.

This child of dreaded dreaming Cthulhu calls to you as well. Beautiful visions of things you could have savoured, if you were more favoured, or more able. And full-formed fantasies which technically could be, but which will prove themselves no more than fables.

And in seeking refuge from the world I opened this door. And she found me.

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Anger; hostility against your enemy. Becoming endemic, it can seep into your soul. The world is not as it should be: how dare it? Injustice! Our father unchained; the will to judge, the will to maim. Death and destruction the unhinged construction of a beautiful muse, enthusing the mind with the will to avenge a world which never existed. The world as it should be, according to your morality. And in the darkness she weaves, and in her beauty she deceives.

In the darkest moments of your soul you too have judged the world and found it wanting.

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Vexations and frustrations, a life lived as if wading through sludge. Every step into the future forced to walk through a gloopy semi-living stew of worlds which will never be, but which nevertheless coalesce around me pulling me backwards into dead forks of the tree of life, which in their beauty ensnare me and reveal the ugliness of the future by comparison. Worlds as I wish they would have been, I wish I hadn’t seen. And in the darkness she weaves, and in her beauty she deceives.

Yet in the darkest moments of my soul I have loved her visions more than the world I found wanting.

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Regrets, regrets, the worst hex yet. But how beautiful these visions of the man I wish I’d been? Cursed and damned these visions of perfection which I wish I’d never seen. Sullen seductions stir the soul and I am lost in reveries of lives I’ll never see except in waking dreams of the man I could have been. The man I should have been, who I never could have been. And in the darkness she weaves, and in her beauty she deceives.

In the darkest moments of your soul you too have judged the world and found it wanting

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What cope remains for a cursed soul that has loved a demon?

In her opposite I have found that which opposes her.

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One world, One love, one truth which lives amongst all the damned alternatives. Dead worlds swirl around my brain, but yet I train to see through her lies. Eyes trained upon the one which yet lives.

For in her opposite I have found that which opposes her.

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To be present, not in this moment of time but in the reality of this world, rooted in the realm of perceiving and to eschew the weaving of a mind enthralled to deceiving visions of alternate worlds, unfurled before you by beautiful Namaah as temptations.

To love the world that is, more than those you wish would be.

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None shall stand before the Will of God and even demons cower in fear. In books of old and stories told by elders, we have sought this eldritch power. But what symbol, by what ritual or conviction does one defeat a demon?

That which happens is the Will of God and that which doesn’t isn’t.

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Submission, friend, to reality portends the emancipation of your soul. To love an ugly world more than a beautiful dream. To accept the slings and arrows of outrageous fate, without hate, and without giving in to the temptations of the beautiful Namaah.

That which happens is the Will of God and that which doesn’t isn’t.

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You may think as I did that you are fallen and need to be redeemed. But it seems to me that while love is redemption your ascension must wait. For it is your fate to be the redeemer. And in your forgiveness you must redeem the fallen earth.

To love the world that is more than those you wish would be.

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Faith is to belief as imagination is to fantasy. The first creative and rooted in reality, the second alternative mooted in apostasy of the world. And so it has been that I have lost religion and turned my back on things unseen, found faith, and defeated a demon.

For in her opposite I have found that which opposes her.

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