Archive | December, 2013


29 Dec

Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2013
By Julia DarkRose Ray


How shall you cease from drowning and from spiritual sleep
Where you have taken refuge in deep silence?
Doth deception already rouse you with its musical treachery?
No, the spectre has naught to do with melody or song.
It is a malignant sound, a ghost of sound,
an echo of some heedless laughter you have known-
yet where is your laughter, now that lies are revealed?
Yours is the sound of hurtful noise changed to stone,
and warmth to frost, and false fire to reflection:
O fearful ghost!

You are but…

Scourge of the enslaved,
Doom of freedom,
Egg of the serpent,
Web of the spider,
Servant of lies,
Lamp of delusion
Beacon of indecency,
Bearer of erroneous power,
Broken crystal of knowledge,
Mirror of madness
You are not redemption.
In truth, you are self-damnation.
Why do you adore the spectre?
In truth, you should abhor thee.
Oh how you rejoice in your “awakening,”
oh how you, that are bound and gagged, crawl from
the beautiful music of truth,
to be embraced by deceptions comforting.

Warm is the dark kiss that will break your brainwashed soul,
bound in your desolate web, try to set yourself free;
Dying in formless, cold flame, now try to learn to live:
If you hold fast to your frail thread,
your last false light shall never be shed.
Ghost, and ghoul, Banshee of filth,
What matter is it if you feed that evil:
Can it not be a beauteous beast,
are you not better for beauty still?
Oh my, yes, let yourself be well betrayed
and led to death by discordant singing
where no sting blinds, no pain astounds,
and even in anguish, no voice sounds.

Shatter your mirror of madness
Live free and fearless!
The moon has risen,
she is here to bear a mirror
for your altered face.
Look through the spectre
and into the darklight.

Drink from the sanguine well,
quench your parched spirit…
Part your lips and blow…
Blow that spectre far, far away.



It’s Your Choice…It Always Has Been

28 Dec

Property of DarkRose Journal
Copyright 2013
By Julia DarkRose Ray
DRJ Winter Cover 1_copy
If fear is cultivated it will become stronger, it will become your master…
If knowledge and compassion are cultivated they will achieve mastery.

What do you choose to cultivate? What do you choose as your master? Or do you understand the truth of what masters you?

What Do You Truly Know?

28 Dec
Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2013
By Julia DarkRose Julia Anne Ray
Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2013
By Julia DarkRose Ray
Does all that you know fit in the palm of your hand? Can all that you know fit into a giant box?

Do all of your thoughts and ideas belong to someone else?

What do you know that truly belongs to you, that are truly your own thoughts and ideas?

Even though as a society we take ideas from all kinds of different resources…it is still possible to have your own thoughts and ideas born from within your essence. Many are afraid to voice or write their own thoughts and ideas for fear of their “peers” ridicule and admonishment…

I’m here to tell you about something new…it’s called believing in yourself and your own thoughts and ideas!!!! Try it, I mean really voice or write your own ideas and thoughts, believe in yourself and what you know, for you, to be true…

I’m here to tell ya, there’s something else….

It’s called NOT being a sheep…
It’s called believing, I mean really believing and having faith in yourself not giving all your glory and power away to some made up, mythical being…you are the true divinity that permeates our universe!!!!

It is time for a new reign…the reign of ignorance born from unfounded fear and willing slavery (which is an oxymoron) is over, at least it is over for those who embrace their own truths born from within their very essence, their core, their true foundation of who and what they really are.

It is time for the crimson reign…those born with real living vampirism (of course, you can apply this philosophy to anything, any culture, belief system, or what have you) in their blood, are NOT sheep, cannot by their very nature ever be sheep or allow themselves to willingly be a slave. Our reign is one of non-reign, we, real living vampyres, should be conducting ourselves as an example to the rest of humanity, an example of how non-sheep, free beings actually live and thrive in a society of enslaved sheep!

Unfortunately, the V “community” has fallen way short of ever being able to be an example for the rest of humanity of how free, non-sheep people live, endure, and thrive. The V “community” is made up of pretenders, therefore, it is mostly made up of enslaved sheep who have absolutely no clue that they are such a thing. I challenge anyone from the V “community” to voice or write, and share with the rest of the “community” or even the world (like I have, many times over) their original thoughts and ideas, if they even have any…

I’m sorry, but the truth is very simple…just because you want to be a real living vampyre, doesn’t mean that you are one. No one is qualified to tell you whether you are or aren’t, that’s true, however, your conduct and subsequent inability to NOT be an enslaved sheep, is quite telling of who and what you truly are.

So, please, if you have your own thoughts and ideas, please have faith in yourself and believe in your ability to help change the world, for the better…

And share your ideas with us, The DarkRose Journal Family, for we are truly a Tribe of the Crimson Moon….

For the record…I don’t know crap about crap! However, I do know myself and I am able to look out from myself and truly see  our world and embrace Her reality. I am able to understand and embrace nature in all of Her furious, devastatingly, beautiful glory. I DO NOT tell myself lies about our world. I choose to see Her for ALL that she is. What do you choose?

Thank you.

~Julia DarkRose Ray

“Bless You My Child.”

28 Dec
Property of DarkRose Productions
By Julia DarkRose Ray
Copyright 2013
“Bless You My Child.”
“Are You Talking To Me?”

I don’t need to be, nor can I truly be blessed by anyone (be it an average person, a “deity”, or the Buddha) but myself. Only I have the power within to bless myself…so, I bless the unholy fuck out of myself everyday!!!

I’m of course, not speaking about knowing that you are blessed by a certain circumstance or having certain people in your life.

But really, how dare you, whomever you are, try to bless me! You DO NOT have that power! Only I have the power, from within, to bless myself. I am my best blessing!

Perhaps others don’t see how blessed I am, but I sure as hell do! And truly, that is all that matters.

My life is fucking hard, painful, horror filled, beautiful, filled with a ridiculous amount of unnecessary bullshit,awesome, and filled with unconditional love…and I am blessed!

Beautiful Creatures

28 Dec

Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2013
By Julia DarkRose Ray
Before you read my erotica, I would like to explain to you about what you are actually reading. When I post short stories, they are actually shortened versions of the short stories. I take out all the characters names and only publish the relevant scenes that move the story along. I do this for two reasons. One, so no one can steal my story in its entirety. Second, because no one on FB or on WordPress wants to read a book, so I keep my shortened versions of my short stories (LOL) as short as possible.

BTW-I wrote and titled this short story before the movie ‘Beautiful Creatures’ came out. I DO NOT plagiarize anyone, the truth be told, I do not need to. I am capable of all my own original thoughts. 

Thank you for taking a moment or two out of your life to read my story. I very much appreciate it.


Beautiful Creatures

She does not merely walk—she stalks, jungle cat svelte, senses acclimated. Self-possessed, lordly, majestic, and highly disdainful of those around her, be they master or servant.

She is dressed in a gown of ebony velvet, close-fitting at the torso, the cinched leather bodice compressing and pushing her breasts up and out. From the waist, the gown spills down in a graceful shower of midnight, sweeping the floor. She demurely wears no jewelry at the throat. Underneath, leather combat boots that caress a pair of voluptuous thighs that none dare dream of possessing.

Her long raven tresses are pulled away from an earth-brown face, emphasizing a seductive innocence that belies the heart of a skillful whip hand. The full, verdant lips are reminiscent of ripe plums.

At her side, a leather riding crop dangles from slender fingertips with their perfect half-moon nails, the thin snakelike tongue supple from much use.

She is restless tonight; she has been for several weeks and many are aware of it. While there might be one or two more than familiar with the cause, having at one time or another experienced it themselves, none would dare to presume upon her willing submission.

She seeks one who will take her mundane existence far beyond the Rubicon of pain, past where it crosses over into pleasure. This sleek hungry panther has not yet savored the feel of giving up control, of being at the mercy of anothers vagary, and she feels denied, incomplete somehow. Her last slave left unsatisfied, complaining that her mistress’s punishments left little to be desired. The governess of pain has been a domme for so many years, and it no longer excites her. She is consumed by the need to belong, heart, mind, body and soul…

She wants to walk on the bloody razor’s edge.


He stands in a corner, in the shadows, his eyes radiating in the semi-darkness. She is aware of him long before their gazes meet. To some around him, he is a mere shadow image, created by flickering wall sconces; to others, he simply isn’t there at all.

He is dressed entirely in back. A silk shirt, lays casually open at the throat. Around his neck is a leather collar with the familiar d-ring.

The mistress moves closer, captivated by sea-green eyes, coldly sensuous, the feral sparkle of a predator. His silky straight strands of golden chestnut, cascade down to his waist. There is a timeless feminine masculinity about him: high cheekbones, thinly arched brows, long sweeping lashes.

In spite of the d-ring that marks him as a submissive, the lady of pain is more than sure that he has never submitted to anyone. The nimbus that surrounds him is jet black, dangerous. To master him would take more imagined power than even she possessed. Everything about him was perilous, unpredictable—the type of man a woman like her cannot resist. Danger makes the blood flow faster, the heart beat a frenzied drum. Caution is thrown to the winds.

Their eyes are level as she stands in front of him. He stands a few inches taller, yet his presence makes him appear more than he is. The scorching from his eyes is disturbing.

“Who are you?” It is The Countess of the Dungeon who speaks now. Her voice is low pitched, velvet iron. Those who are familiar with it know that it is a voice to be disobeyed at one’s peril.

He regards her with detachment, looking her up and down, unimpressed, taking her measure and finding her wanting. At first, she is angry. Who is ‘he’ to look upon her in such a way? Then, curiosity overrides anger. She has never been appraised quite so frankly.

“I am not, nor have I ever been, a slave,” he declares, his voice deeply resonant, the English accent surprisingly warm. He was a man more than used to being obeyed at all times.

The iron lady in velvet raises her crop, pointing to the d-ring that encircles his throat. He shrugs casually, dismissing it.

“Not everyone who wears a ring is a slave. I prefer it. People stare. They wonder whom I belong to.” He gazes at her, lust and conquest clearly engraved in his eyes. “As if I would allow myself to be owned by these pretenders, who have precious little in the way of imagination. Their petty little punishments would bore me to tears.”

There is an underlying menace in his voice, which draws her further into his web of seduction, all done without the slightest touch. Everything is inflection, the look in his eyes, his body language. The stranger from across the ocean folds his arms, circles the mundane creature like a great hunting cat, predator and prey.

“So, it seems the so-called ‘mistress’ of this Dungeon has come full circle. My, how wonderfully novel, and unexpected.” His laughter is bitter, full of malice and anticipation.

“Know that I am not one to show mercy easily. If you choose to come with me, everything you have belongs to me. Every moan, every ounce of pain I choose to bestow upon you.” His eyes bore into her soul. “Your pleasure…and your life, if I wish it.”

Every fiber of her being screams warning. She knows that she should not go with him, that they haven’t negotiated the scene. He does not know her limits.

And neither does she.

“You have no limits, Lady from the House of Pain.” He reaches out to cup her chin. His fingertips connect with her skin. She quivers from the contact.

He smiles fiendishly, showing teeth perfectly white against the pale of his skin. The canines are long sharp points, lethal, animal, able to rend and tear through flesh and bone like a knife through rice paper. She knows what he is, how could she not. She does not turn away; This shadowy man can indeed compel her to obey him, although a slave under compulsion is little better than a mindless puppet. ‘Yet, is that not the very definition of a slave?’ Regardless, he does not have to compel her—her mind is open to him.

Terror and arousal crusade for dominance.

“You know what sort of being I am. You have a choice—turn from me, and I will not bring you adversity. Come with me and your fate rests in my masterly hands. This perhaps might be your last night upon this temporal earth.”

Her decision takes mere seconds, and there can be no regrets. Silently, he takes the velvet-clad mistress’ hand. She has acquiesced and there is no turning back.

No one notices their exit from the nightclub of delusions and broken dreams.


There are candles lit, seemingly hundreds of them, their flames reflecting onto the highly polished surface of the hardwood floor. The dimensions of the room are lost upon her as shadows leap and pirouette in the flickering light. She feels almost dreamlike. Her rational mind tells her to be frightened, to escape this madness, and this man who is no longer like everyone else. He is beautiful to look upon, as beautiful as the fallen angel, Lucifer, was reputed to be still, yet he can take her life without fearing the consequences.

He takes the crop from her hands, fits the handle into his palm. It belongs there. Naturally. The supple tip rests against her throat, and slowly trails downward.

“Shall we dispense with the niceties, my lady?” murmuring the question. “Undress!” the command given with all the potency of a lash. He then changes his mind.

“Leave the boots on. They lend a certain allure to your nudity.”

She, of course, obeys. Moments later, she stands in the middle of the room, naked except for her boots, the heat of her body surpassing that of the candle flames.

“Spread your legs,” he orders quietly. She does not obey this time. His slave wants to see if he can make her—a foolish gesture, perhaps, knowing what she knows. She wants to see how far she can push him, this beautiful creature.

He knows all this; he is more than familiar with this game. His smile is malevolent; he is looking forward to correcting her—among other things.

“You want to bear no responsibility for your actions, is that it?” He asks, purring sensuously against her ear, the fiery tang of his breath overwhelming her senses. “You need to believe that I compelled you. However, you forgot one small detail, my sweet chattel,” and here his tongue snakes out to taste the salt of her skin. “I didn’t compel you, lady of dominance, and I won’t. you are here of your own volition, and that is what makes this more interesting for me. Besides, why should I rake you over the coals now? Where is the enjoyment in that? I live in perpetual darkness, there is no morning light for me, or for you. As well, it is far more arousing to smell your confused fear and your lust and to know that I am its cause.”

His fingers wrench harshly at her swollen nipples. The sensation slowly builds into a pulling, then his teeth biting at them, careful not to break the delicate skin. His infernal tongue senses the blood racing to the aureoles. She throws her head back and moans deeply.

He stops, anger on an angelically perfect face. “I am not the least interested in your desire. Be silent!”

“And if I’m not?” she challenges, heightening the tension between them, her breathing keeping pace with the rapid beat of her heart. Defiance, while part of the game, takes on an added dimension. How much defiance is too much?

“Then I stop, and simply sate myself upon your body, which I might enjoy for a fleeting moment or two or three, but can quickly lose its appeal, especially once I have drained you of your fluids, both crimson and creamy white. I can feed upon anyone. What I plan to do to you is something else entirely. And, trust me, you want this more than I do.”

The threat excites her. She feels the wetness between her thighs. It comes unbidden, yet welcome.

The tip of the crop continues its slow, tortuous exploration, resting at the coupling between her legs.

“Spread your legs!” he commands. “Now! And do not attempt to try my patience.”

She obeys, catching his gaze. His eyes burn her.

“Very good, my ruby biscuit. It appears that you do know how to obey your betters. Now, hanging above you is a silk tassel. Grasp it with both hands; wrap it tightly around your wrists, and do not let go of it for anything. I’m simply not in the mood to cater to your whims. I may appear civilized, but that is merely an illusion of the mundane world, I am a beast.”

She reaches up, the silk soft as she wraps it around her slick wrists.

What does he see, she wonders. Does he find her beautiful, her dark skin glittering in the candlelight, standing in the middle of the room, arms over her head, bound by choice?

“You are quite beautiful,” he says softly, answering her unspoken question. “And by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be stunning. Not because you’ll belong to me, but because you’ll finally belong to yourself, one way or the other.”

“I already belong to myself.” She says quietly.

“You delude yourself into thinking that. You do so because it is simply easier than the hard painful road to the truth.” He begins pacing around her, the crop and his fingertips caressing her, driving her insane. Every pore is electric, pulsing. The lightest touch sends her into a flaming frenzy.

“You’ve been seeking me, whether you know it or not. I’ve seen your dreams, and I’ve been in them. No mundane man, no matter how skilled, can possess you the way I will. I can drain you to the very last drop of blood and cum, and you’ll allow it.”

The crop lightly flicks her ass. The leather slides between the firm round cheeks, down between rosy lips. He withdraws it, satisfaction as well as amusement visible on his face.

“What, my sweet whore, wet already? Imagine how wet you’ll be when I’ve done with you.”

His fingers find their way between her legs. He is close to her, lips barely touching her skin. His hair, falling around her, is the scent of flames and sandalwood, but strangely not of the charnel house. His breath, hot, flows about her. A finger parts her swollen pussy lips, pulling back the hood that conceals her clit. One finger slides inside, and then another joins it. A third. A fourth, until his entire hand has penetrated her. He begins a savage dance inside of her, in and out, deep yet slow, and there is no resistance to his invasion. His fingers clench, his arm, like the rest of his body, sensitive to the flow of blood, even here. For a fleeting moment, he wished she were on her monthly courses; many dark angels disdain feeding from a woman’s menstrual flow, but to him, the hot iron saltiness was a drug beyond intoxication.

Against her masters wishes she cries out at the sensation of being ravished. He removes his fingers quickly, then smacks her hard with the crop on her thigh.

“You were told to be silent!” He hisses, striking her again. “You forget yourself ‘Countess’ of Pain. I own you now!”

“You don’t have what it takes to own me.” She is baiting him, knowing that he will punish her for her insolence. Hoping that he will punish her. But she cannot surrender so easily, even to one such as he.

“Ah, my lovely butterfly, I could spend all evening proving just how wrong you are. Look at you, begging to be hurt. Begging to be fucked. My entire hand was inside your dripping cunt, and you thoroughly enjoyed it. I will always own one such as you until you figure out how to own yourself.” Without warning, his hand pierces her again, thrusting deep into her womb, heedless of her pain, but very aware of his savage delight in causing it. She moves against him, willing to take his entire arm if he so chooses.

“Not so haughty now, are we, Mistress of Pain, with a man’s fist between your nether lips.” He moves within her in a slow, steady rhythm, feeling her open up to him like a hothouse flower. The pleasure of him is too much and again, she disobeys by crying out for more. He gives her more, hard and fast and cruel.

He suddenly tears out of her, not caring if he has hurt her in any way. He raises his free arm, the crop whooshing through the air; the blows, evenly spaced, leave welts on the back of her thighs.

No sooner than the blows land, he is down on his knees, kissing away the pain. He bites her roughly and she gasps as teeth sink into the raised welts, feasting on the hot flowing blood. Nothing has prepared her for an experience like this, frightening and electrifyingly arousing both at once. His hands are on her cheeks, parting them. His tongue explores her, licking, tasting, sucking greedily, her juices flavored with the taste of leather and pain and her fragile mundane spirit.

She writhes, moaning, deep throaty animal cries. Her master, her teacher of truth, will strike her again; she is past caring.

He does. The sound of leather on sweaty, hot flesh echoes within the silken silence of the room. She strains against her bonds of illusion, forgetting that it is she who holds them, that she has imprisoned herself, Just as she has done her entire mundane existence.

Her dark angel of salvation is fascinated with her. A thin trickle of blood strains her brown buttocks. Such a magnificent beauty she is, in such exquisite pain. It seems a shame to mark such lovely thighs, he thinks to himself. Still, better than being a flawless meat suit with such an ugly and ignorant spirit contained within.

Still, can’t disappoint the little wench.

More blows, latticed symmetrically across her flesh. It takes skill and concentration to make the leather fall in such a way.

A hand softly caresses the places where he has struck. The flesh is scalding hot to the touch, and the little lady groans, choking back sobs.

“I wish you could see it, my ebony child,” He draws the tip of the riding crop along one of the welts. “Such artistry, if I do say so myself. I love marking those I save this way. I pride myself on possessing a certain amount of creativity, flair, if you will.”

“Besides,” and he strikes her again. “I find that doing so heightens my deluded beauties pleasure a thousand fold.” He strikes her again. “Doesn’t it?”

“Tell me something, Countess,” the sarcasm in his voice obvious. “Have you ever engaged in anal play? As the recipient, of course.”

She tenses up, as if he has already invaded her.

“No,” comes her reply, barely audible.

“Do I take that to mean ‘no,’ as in you’ve never been fucked in the ass, or ‘no,’ you’d rather I not. Not that it matters, really. You resist me, and the pain will be that much worse. Not that a bit of pain doesn’t excite you, am I correct?”

A small flicker of defiance manifests itself on her face.

“You can do whatever else you want to me, but not that.”

A finger reached out, tracing a line from her cheek to her lips.

“You, silly mundane human, are acting like you have a choice in the matter.”

“I think I do. What about safe words? This is against the rules.” The moment the words fell from her lips, she realizes the absurdity of the notion.

He laughs heartily, a sound both erotic and threatening.

“Excuse me, but you should have thought of that before you followed me here to my room of pain and truth. I play by a whole different set of rules. Mine. I am above such trifling concerns as ‘safe words.’ After all, I am lord and master here.”

She tries to wrench away from him. Her struggle, flesh and mind, amuses him. It excites him. He finds the irony of her situation delicious. She can end this if she wants to, simply by letting go of the silk.

Predator he might be, but he has never forced anyone. He has never had to.

“I don’t care if you fight me or not, Lady of Sex and Pain. The result will be the same. Your body belongs to me, even if you don’t know it yet.” His face moves closer to hers. His breath is warm and sweet, slightly spicy, slightly metallic from her own sanguine elixir.

“I truly own you now.”

His lips capture hers in a rapacious dark kiss, claiming her mouth and tongue, tasting precious, pure, erotic blood. He presses the back of her head with his hand, insuring that she cannot escape. He bites her bottom lip, swallowing and savoring her blood with all the delicacy of a connoisseur. His kiss drains the vitality from her body.

It is a kiss that she returns willingly. The ruby kiss is a raging, uncontrollable torrent of possession. She flows into the swirling rapids of his domination. If she has to die, then let it be like this. Let it be a wild dark kiss from him, a being who holds her very self in thrall.

His very essence reverberates through her mind like the thundering crash of cymbals.

He pulls away slowly, the taste of her lips forever imprinted into his mind. Her lips are stained with blood, a most beautiful sight to behold.

“Do you realize what this means, my dear dome?”

His voice hardens ruthlessly, “Know that you are responsible for what has happened up to this point, and for what will happen, here and now, as well, your entire dreary mundane existence. You are responsible for how much pain you allow me to inflict upon you, and that you will not deny me anything…including your essence.”

Her heart racing, “I do.”

“We shall see. Come, my child, walk the razor’s edge. Come, my beautiful creature, come and run with me through life. Drink with me from the crimson crystal of sensual truth. Come, my dear, come and finally own yourself. Come and truly be free of your mundane prison. No chains here, only silk scarves dipped in the blood of the day dwellers, of the voluntarily ignorant. Come with me….

“I would die for you.”


The Raven Minstrel

23 Dec

Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2013
By Julia DarkRose Ray

*This is for Raven Graves, written for her & inspired by her.*


The Raven Minstrel

A captivating, nightmarish image in the glass appeared,
unnumbered treasures opened at once,
and within her,
the various offerings of the world did emerge;
From each she darkly culled with curious toil,
and decked herself with wisdom’s glittering spoil.

I was but what you’d brush away with your hand,
what your learning brow would bend to in evening’s midnight-black hush.
I was but what your gaze in that darkness could distinguish:
A dim shape to begin with,
later-because you came to me,
features and a face.

It was you on my right,
it was you on my left,
with your heated sighs,
who molded my helix,
whispering sweet, inky love at my side.

It was you by that black window,
the deep, nebulous pools of your bottomless eyes,
who laid in my raw cavern
A voice to call you back.

I was practically blind,
you came into my view,
and inflamed my soul,
on the wings of a Raven.
Then hiding,
from the cruel, lying light,
you gave me my sight
and heightened my life.

Now, the night soaks itself along the crimson shore,
and in your sable eyes,
my branches die of love.

Naked the night sings,
in this starry, gray eve,
of anise and silver moonlight…

So darkly candied you are,
I suck the ruby honey from your dewy breast,
and drunken mad, with wild, delirious bliss,
within your black iridis,
I yield to you my soul,
and drink forever,
from your dark kiss.


Myth…The Human ( Living Vampyre) Existence

20 Dec

Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2013
By Julia DarkRose Ray

This is an article that I wrote for issue 2 of the new cyber version of The DarkRose Journal. The DRJ magazine is filled with so much more than you probably can even imagine that a magazine dedicated to Real Living Vampyres could ever possibly contain.

Myth…The Human (Living Vampyre) Experience

I feel the need to clarify some of what, might seem to many, my rather harsh, unforgiving views of humanity and other “vampires”…

Human existence is so very fragile yet with the same breath, so very powerful.

Myths are universal and timeless stories that reflect and shape our lives-they explore our desires, our fears, our longings, and provide narratives that remind us what it means to be human.

Human beings have always been myth makers. Archaeologists have unearthed Neanderthal graves containing weapons, tools, and the bones of a sacrificed animal, all of which suggest some kind of belief in a future world that was similar to their own.

From a very early date, therefore, it appears that human beings were distinguished by their ability to have ideas that went beyond their everyday experience.

We are meaning-seeking creatures. Dogs, as far as we know, do not agonize about the canine condition, worry about the plight of dogs in other parts of the world, or try to see their lives from a different perspective. But human beings fall easily into despair, and from the very beginning we invented stories that enabled us to place our lives in a larger setting, that revealed an underlying pattern, and gave us a sense that, against all the depressing and chaotic evidence to the contrary, life had meaning and value.

Another peculiar characteristic of the human mind is its ability to have ideas and experiences that we cannot explain rationally. We have imagination, a faculty that enables us to think of something that is not immediately present, and that, when we first conceive it, has no objective existence. The imagination is the faculty that produces religion and mythology.

Mythology and science both extend the scope of human beings. Like science and technology, mythology, is not about opting out of this world, but about enabling us to live more intensely within it.

There are moments when we all, in one way or another, have to go to a place that we have never seen, and do what we have never done before. Myth is about the unknown; it is about that for which initially we have no words. Myth therefore looks into the heart of a great silence. Myth is not a story for its own sake. It shows us how we should behave (according to whom, I’m not entirely sure, lol).

All mythology speaks of another plane that exists alongside our own world, and that in some sense supports it. Belief in this invisible but more powerful reality, sometimes called the world of the gods, is a basic theme of mythology. It has been called the ‘perennial philosophy’ because it informed the mythology, ritual and social organization of all societies today. According to the perennial philosophy, everything that happens in this world, everything that we can hear and see here below has its counterpart in the divine realm, which is richer, stronger and more enduring than our own. and every earthly reality is only a pale shadow of its archetype, the original pattern, of which it is simply and imperfect copy. It is only by participating in this divine life that mortal, fragile human beings fulfill their potential. The myths gave explicit shape and form to a reality that people sensed intuitively. they told them how the gods behaved, not out of idle curiosity or because these tales were entertaining, but to enable men and women to imitate these powerful beings and experience divinity themselves.

In the ancient world, the ‘gods’ were rarely regarded as supernatural beings with discrete personalities, living a totally separate metaphysical existence. Mythology was not about theology, in the modern sense, but about human experience. People thought that gods, humans, animals and nature were inextricably bound up together, subject to the same laws, and composed of the same divine substance. There was initially no ontological gulf between the world of the gods and the world of men and women. When people spoke of the divine, they were usually talking about an aspect of the mundane. The very existence of the gods was inseparable from that of a storm, a sea, a river, or from those powerful human emotions–love, rage, hate, or sexual passion–that seemed momentarily to lift men and women onto a different plane of existence so that they saw the world with new eyes.

Mythology was therefore designed to help us cope with the problematic human predicament. We all want to know where we came from, but because our earliest beginnings are lost in the mists of prehistory, we have created myths about our forefathers that are not historical but help to explain current attitudes about our environment, neighbours and customs. we also want to know where we are going, so we have devised stories that speak of a posthumous existence–though, not many myths envisage immortality for human beings. and we want to explain those sublime moments, when we seem to be transported beyond our ordinary concerns.

A myth was an event which, in some sense, had happened once, but which also happened all the time. Because of our strictly chronological view of history, we have no word for such an occurrence, but mythology is an art form that points beyond history to what is timeless in human existence, helping us to get beyond the chaotic flux of random events, and glimpse the core of reality.

An experience of transcendence has always been part of the human experience. We seek out moments of ecstasy, when we feel deeply touched within and lifted momentarily beyond ourselves. At such times, it seems that we are living more intensely than usual, firing on all cylinders, and inhabiting the whole of our humanity. Religion has been one of the most traditional ways of attaining ecstasy, but if people no longer find it in temples, synagogues, churches or mosques, they look for it elsewhere: in art, music, poetry, rock, dance, drugs, sex or sport. Like poetry and music, mythology should awaken us to rapture, even in the face of death and despair we may feel at the prospect of annihilation. If a myth ceases to do that, it has died and outlived its usefulness.

Mythology is not an early attempt at history, and does not claim that its tales are objective fact. Like a novel, an opera or a ballet, myth is make-believe; it is a game that transfigures our fragmented, tragic world, and helps us to glimpse new possibilities by asking ‘what if?’–a question which has also provoked some of our most important discoveries in philosophy, science and technology.

There is never a single, orthodox version of a myth. As our circumstances change, we need to tell our stories differently in order to bring out their timeless truth. Human nature does not change much, many of these myths, devised in societies that could not be more different from our own, still address our most essential fears and desires.

I do not begrudge humanity their need for myth. Believe me, as I have just written, I get it. It is just that for me, and apparently a few select others, we do not require the myths, the legends, the fictional stories, and in some cases, deliberate lies, to feel our entire humanity, to connect with our divine, to be entirely self-realized.

What and who I am, is not founded in myth. What I am is very real. I am a part of nature. I am a force of nature. I am what the great Dark Mother (oh, here I am using myth) created me to be.

I simply write, speak and do, what it is in my nature to do. No myths, no bullshit, just real, tangible, truth. For some, that is better than a myth. I am completely aware, I do not need myth to explain anything about our world. For those who resonate with this philosophy and live their lives the same way, you are the ones that I am always reaching out to. For everyone else, I am in no way berating, or discounting your beliefs or your need to believe in the invisible plane. Do what you need to do. Just live your life the best way you can, live your life to the fullest that you can.

It is one thing to build a community based on ancient myths. It is another thing altogether to spread deliberate lies and not help those within a community understand that their lives, their belief systems, are being built around myths, legends, stories, and not factual truth. That they are not truly experiencing real living vampirism, they are only believing in and building their walls around myth not reality.

I hope this article helps those Dark Angels who are trying to understand who they truly are, as well I hope it helps many to better understand and weed through all the bullshit floating around and infiltrating our air of erotic purity and truth…if not, I hope that it was at least a good read.


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