It, my friends, it, and gentle scumbags

Guest post courtesy of Youngling #2. Check him out:


It pulls from the recesses of the dark and cavernous hollows we call our souls. It taps the murky, milky, putrid sewage from the well of our rotting hearts. The mind is not elastic, but when it comes to This, we can stretch it to limits. The mind becomes frayed, torn at its edges, trying to wrap itself around the idea that we are not alone, that we need someone - but only when This, this gross and filthy and undeniable Thing presents Itself. For when This comes - the shadow, the specter, the revenant that left us, and itself, for hopeless dead - the mind, heart and soul turn desperate and tasteless and listless.

This It is whatever you suppose It to be. It is your inner-most fear. It is the demon that haunts your dreams. It is the devil to your god. The love to your hate. The reality of your love. It is pain rather than joy. So why do you - we - regard the latter?

It is because we are fools. We are the demons. We are the fears. We are the hate. We are the reality. It sucks us dry and makes wrinkled and withered our passion. It creates Us.

Fly away dreary torment. Fly away ghastly dream. Fly away cadaverous and wretched nightmare. Fly away.