The 9th Continent: Eyes of Horus

What do you want to hear? What side am I on? Who I admire and who I detest? What words should I use to appeal to your psyche? Do you even feel, for me? Look through my writing and tell me what you really think about me. Am I the culprit? The one who played all the cards? Or am I the victim? Just an unlucky bastard on the wrong end of the coin.

As your eyes carelessly run past my only outlet, whisper to me, the picture life carefully drew out and bestowed on your feeble shoulders as a child, your unworthy ones as a youth, and your last few years of indifferent living. Whatever your status may be, whoever you are, whatever you've become, accrue it all to the soft, rattling lips of fate. She is but a fickle mistress. One day she's in your bed, the next, the tumor in your head.

Denying the crimes that have been shoved up my black ass would be pointless, wouldn't it? Sometimes, it's better to leave things as they are. Just being the autumn leaf swaying in the northern breeze. As ironic as it sounds, these cold steel bars have provided me a distinct peace of mind. One I could barely grasp, lost in the tumultuous existence I conformed to outside it.

After 43 long years on this awry earth, I have stumbled on but one universal conclusion. Predictability will be the end of our kind. Every single nook and cranny of mother nature wreaks of it. Of the need to satisfy this circle of nature. The treadmill of destiny. The putrid stench of an all too familiar story you call life. I chose to free my people of this burden. I chose to take the weight on my shoulders. Sacrificing myself for the greater good, and like every martyr before me, the cause for which I proudly stood for, they spat back at my face, realizing its importance only after it could never again be grasped.

My advice to you brothers and sisters, for your sake, run. She will be the end of you, as she was my people. Sounds almost ironic, calling them "my people" when they never saw the comfort in my eyes, nor the serenity in my methods. Their fragile understanding allowing them see the painter on his canvas, but never the full picture. The mind is a torturous weapon, even to the strongest of wills. It is like a lion unlawfully chained and tamed by a master. For one day, he will rise up against you, clouding your judgment, upsetting the balance you once proudly dangled. But even in that imbalance lay a notion of predictability.

Good versus Bad, Right versus Wrong, Angel versus Demon. For centuries and millennia's on end, we chose to latch so tightly on the ideas of ideology. Judging right and wrong by sheer emotion, or laws with feeble foundations. Answer me this, what value does man hold dearest? What Ideal does he refuse to let slip time and time again? Love? Well, why do you suppose there exists a thing called, "first love"? Because it's an everlasting feeling you'll never forget? Because it's some genuine love bullcrap you've been fed since the first cartoon your restless eyes glanced upon? Don't be naïve with your judgment you whimpering soul. The only reason there exists a thing like first love, is because there's going to be a second, and a third, and one after, and another one after that. Like pawns on a chess board, the death of one being sacrificed for the life of another. Now if your greatest value isn't even genuine, what is? All the values born out of that singular feeling, are they genuine? Your ignorance is but a lingering tumor, ready to eat you up from the inside out.

To believe that man has survived 2 Millenia with that clouded judgment, now that's the most unpredictable shit I stumbled upon. Your hope, your grit to keep going, to keep moving forward, expending time and energy on a future that is all but guaranteed. That mentality I envy. The tenaciousness in their voice is my waking call everyday in this facility. The glimmer of unrivaled power, of an unquenchable thirst to subdue all that lay in your path regardless who or what it was. A skill possessed by one too many in the Ninth Continent.

I have been misinterpreted many a times because of my manner of vague communication, but hear me when I say, that, was not a metaphor or a figure of speech. Once upon a yesteryear, there did exist an Ninth continent. Besides, hiding from the limelight was pretty easy, all one needed to do was take a step back, your kind was too preoccupied with each other to care anyways, too busy fighting yourselves. Once again, too predictable.

My cellmate feeds my aching ears with fantasies, divergent off reality that the world would conjure to often distract themselves. Werewolves, Vampires, Elves, Happiness. Sounded pretty interesting after wasting 10 minutes of my life I can never get back on it, but you know the funny thing about always distracting yourself from the rudiments of reality, always running from it? The second you start, you can't stop. You don't stop. Because the second you do, her divine lips are there to reward you with a kiss of death. I say that from experience, so trust me, close to no one will tell you the truth like I will.

I stopped, for a single second, not even because I was tired or had grown weary or cared much about a conscience. I stopped, because for once in my life, I wanted to know what it felt like to hope, to shuffle the card deck and re-create for myself an image outside the one I was meant to portray, and then she kissed me. Wrapped her tongue round mine until I was drunk with Eros. That intoxicating wine that never really lost its taste, just laid in wait for the right moment to hit me. And...

To be honest, talking never really was my sport, probably never will be, but if I'm being executed in a couple days' time, passing on the barest knowledge I possibly can should do a hierarchy some justice. So instead of telling you, I'll show you. The Legacy of the Ninth