Letter To My Muse

Dear Nevermore,

Tomorrow is the day I set out to find happiness. I have given up on you, completely and totally. I am fed up with not having you here by me, I'm fed up with being sad without you. I'm fed up, you hear me? You used to shit on me all the time, you never used to leave your place on my head, always sprinkling that magical dust of yours. But now...

What happened?

Is the grand master of Night's Plutonian Shore jealous?

I'm giving you till tomorrow to return.

Yours "nevermore",
Wayne.

About Big Red

Baphomet. Simply the strangest of them all.

So we've all heard about Big Red, haven't we? He's in every single culture and religion in the world, and perhaps not the same color or shape or even going by the same name, but we have all heard about him (or her, whatever floats your boat). From the Judo-Christian Satan, to the inner and lower nature of human beings in the Baha'i Faith - he's everywhere.

In most depictions, Big Red is exactly that. Big and red. In others, he's horned and has a trident like Poseidon had. In some, he is simply the Grim Reaper. In others, merely ourselves.

While some people may greatly prefer the thriller-like depiction of Satan as our own inner-demons, I do not. Sure, there is horror in everybody, but we are in no way the only force in the universe capable of causing destruction. I tend to believe there is some other force, some malevolent man or beast or both walking the world sowing chaos. While all evidence points towards the dismissal of such a creature, we have to question whether or not science is to be wholly trusted. Was it not science that once claimed the earth was flat, or that the sun revolved around us?

That is actually a very conceited one, that man actually believed the universe revolved around them! But... Moving on...

Dismissing the existence of either a Creator or a Destroyer (or a deity that is perhaps both, most likely), only makes us ignorant. Sure, we wage war with machines and not with magic, we split an atom, we created a virtual world in which most people live nowadays, and we have landed on celestial bodies and orbited them. But does that make us the grand masters of the universe? Is humanity really that proud of themselves? The more I think of it, mankind is more like the biblical depiction of Satan than most people realize. Full of pride, able to destroy anything and everything if given the chance and motive, and of course - our denial of the supernatural.

Big Red exists. My logic is as follows:

1. We exist, therefore we must have been made.
2. If we were made, then there must be a creator.
3. If there is a creator, then there is a possibility there is a destroyer.
4. If there's a possibility, it's most likely possible.
5. Optimism dictates believing.

Not very logical, I admit, but hey! That's me and my beliefs!

If there is a destroyer, like I believe there is, then the world is much more horrific than we think. This belief opens up whole new doors into terror, once you open them and leave them open. A destroyer that is directly the opposite of a creator would theoretically be able to do only bad, or - if God is bad - only good. It all depends on what you believe.

But here's where my theory comes in, something I strongly believe in:

There is no Creator, and no Destroyer. The two are one and the same.


Morality is such a sticky subject. Human beings created it. Every immoral act has its own justification... Murder, has Euthanasia. Theft has Re-possessive Charity (think Robin Hood), Dishonesty has Preservation of Feelings, and so forth.

Human beings, the horrific creatures that we truly are, created morality to justify their actions and feel in control. Does nobody remember that the human race was once as low as a common mouse? That we wondered on all-fours, without intelligence? That it was only by the grace of circumstance that we happened to evolve into the all-mighty (nearly) beings that we are today.

For this reason, how can we really know what is real. To do so, one must detach themselves from everything and look at all they see reasonably and logically.

What if your God didn't give a damn one way or the other? What if every miracle was only coincidence, or the strength to persevere and overcome obstacles was only possible through our own misguided faith and the belief that we are being protected.

What if... This is all true?

If it is, there is no Big Red or Big Blue. Then all there is in this never-ending universe of trillions and trillions of possibilities is a Big Gray.

A being possessing either no morality, or no intelligence. Or Big Gray died?

This, Horrific Ones, is the forbidden fruit of Horror. And this is what you have to seek out. Make people question their beliefs, make them believe like H.P. Lovecraft did that the whole universe is a twisted realm of chaos, that there is NO God. Instill the belief in their minds that hope is useless, that doom is inevitable. Deny the afterlife (or embrace it in some twisted form, it's your choice), commit blasphemy and get their blood pumping while simultaneously chilling them.

Your job is to make your readers feel.

Like King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table sought out to find the Holy Grail, so must you look within yourself to the deepest and darkest depths of your soul to find that which terrifies you. You must unsettle yourself to no end before you can ever unsettle anybody else.

And if that doesn't work, remember that the whole universe is empty. There IS no God, there IS no Satan, chances are there is no being bigger than humanity as a whole, and if there is It is passive in all forms. There is NO afterlife, no heaven nor hell.

But who am I to know for sure? After all, I'm only trying to fuel your depression and get you to join the dark side.

"We have cookies!"

A Brief Note

So, this blogging thing is fun. Much better than journalism, but I'd still prefer that. Not as fun as writing. No followers yet, but then again I haven't put this out there. Waiting for my Horrific Muse to return, still... Anyway, the point of this post is to say that from now on, blog posts will be published at least twice a week. Keep checking back for more, subscribe and like or +1 or re-tweet anything you want.

Oh yes, and if you have any unnecessary stress or too much sadness, and you're an unfortunate soul who wants to get rid of it, go smack dogs on the arse and RUN!! I guarantee that'll cheer you up!

And if you don't want to get rid of your stress or sadness and like your sadness, DON'T smack any dogs on their arses!

Muse, I Miss You!

Recently, my writing abilities have dried up. I am not a believer in writer's block, so don't dare say it's writer's block (to quote the love of my life, "Off with his head!"). I've been sitting here constantly and consistently, trying to type things that make even a little bit of coherent sense. I've written a short story titled, "A Hundred Million Suns", but other than that - nothing, absolutely nothing. I've been fiddling with a dark fantasy trilogy, and it's all good except for the fact that NOTHING HAPPENS. The two characters literally just wander through the desert and look at each other naked in secrecy while being chased by zombies and the government (maybe I need to rethink the plot a bit, just a bit). I've tried poetry, but nothing can quite match the caliber of the works I used to produce when I was actually depressed.

You see, that's the strange thing about writing horror. Your Horrific Muse - that insolent little bastard who sits on your forehead and shits fairy dust all over you - only comes when you can actually picture yourself in a heap of shit. It's as if the little impudent ass wipe knows when you're happy and purposely tries to stay away. He's a lot like God, come to think of it. Plain and simple.

Your Horrific Muse (a.k.a SATAN/GOD, roll with it, people, this isn't a church): "Things are going GREAT! Why don't I just pack my bags and leave and just not return until things are really shitty? Sounds fucking good to me!"

NOW... Ohmygod...

How much more ridiculous can your Muse get? Why can't he just sit there and just shit on you, like all the time... I mean, he shat on Stephen King, he shat on Clive Barker, and Edgar Allan Poe and all the other famous writers who dabbled in the dark arts. What makes THEM so important that Muse gets to shit on THEM all the time?

Muse, if you're reading this from that palace of yours down in hell, and you know I'm pissed at you... Stop laughing right now and come shit on me already. I wrote you a letter.

Dear Muse,


Things just haven't been the same since you left, I feel like I've lost a part of me and I want you back. I might just be silly, I don't even know why I'm writing this. I can't write horror anymore, I can't even listen to sad music without laughing. I'm happy with your replacement, the happiness in my life, but I want you both and I think you two can get along quite well together. She says she's up for a threesome, if you shit on me and provide me with horrific tales to tell, it'll balance out - what with all the happiness she gives me. She loves you too, she loves you Muse, and she wants us to be a big happy family together.


You have made others so happy, what with you shitting on so many people in the past, so I knew it was going to end eventually. But I'm hoping you come back soon, because I can't write without you. You filled me with sadness, and she fills me with happiness. I can't imagine not having either one of you, but if I have to choose I'll choose her.


But please come back, please Muse.


We can be a family!


I miss you,
Wayne.


You see Muse? I need you! I've been waiting by my computer with coffee, I know how much you like coffee, see! I remembered! Now please Muse, come back... I promise you things will be different this time, I won't squeeze the shit out of you...

I'll let it flow, let it come naturally...

Oh yes... And if you're constipated, though, ignore this whole post and know I'm waiting for you! I miss you my old friend, so go take some medicine for that backed up rear-end of yours my dear pet Raven and come back to me already!

P.S. You Fucking Retarded Bird...

Horror

Horror is described by Google as follows:

Horror

hor-ror/hôrər/

Noun:

1. An intense feeling of fear, shock, or disgust.
2. A thing causing such a feeling. 

While this is partly true, it doesn't even come close to what horror really is. 

Horror is such a complicated notion to fathom, a genre of film or literature or art that we can never really explain concretely, despite horror and our attraction towards it being an innate part of human nature. Our need for horror stems from the nature of the world itself, and an attempt to explain or understand why horrible things happen (supernatural horror) or get a glimpse of death or some unbelievable tragedy. Some watch it to be scared, or to get a glimpse of the terrifying to feel better about their lives.

Others, like myself (to an extent), watch it for the fun of watching others suffer.

I have an obsession with horror, perhaps an unhealthy one, but I don’t really mind. Horror appeals to me in a way that no other genre can, besides romance and comedy (but I still prefer gothic romances or dark humour). There’s something about the way it unsettles me and makes me think twice about switching off the lights, the way I tread slowly even when I’m home alone, the way it makes me second guess everything around me that just thrills me to no end!

And, of course, it comes in all sorts of different shapes and forms, but to name my favorite: Dark Fantasy, Erotic Horror, Gothic Fiction, Lovecraftian Horror, Dystopian Science Fiction – and, of course, Supernatural Horror.

I have written stories that fall into all of these genres, but mostly I end up writing contemporary horror. None of it published, not because I don’t think it’s not good enough or that it isn’t, but because I have other plans for them. I have sketched many drawings that I will upload to deviantart in some time, and will link to them here. I’ve read just about every horror book I could get my hands on, and have watched almost every horror movie that has been released since my birth. I have even written poems edging more towards the dark side. I doubt there is any bigger fan of horror than me, but feel free to challenge me on that one.

I write horror. I draw horror. I watch horror. I think it and I breathe it. I see it everywhere around me, in the shadows in the room when the lights are dim and in the middle of the day in the playground when the promise of a haunting figure lurks in a little boy.

Horror is everywhere, in every single one of us. We all love it, whether we dare to admit it or not. And those of us who embrace it, who dare to walk proudly and call ourselves horrific and let forth the horror in our minds and hearts into the world, shall walk without fear.

Because what is there to fear but fear itself?