Struggle. Confliction. I’m struggled between two worlds – I am conflicted within myself. The greatest facet of the Devil, is for man, and for darkness, in totality, to sympathize his story. For one to relate, is to become reprobate. To walk that dreaded path of sorrow, is of the most dangerous avenue, and of the most harrowed venue.
This is the grand revelation – the last befalling, and the great rumination, the ideology that has been written, but once, and has since remained driftless aloft thought, eternally…amassed at last, this, the duality of persona; yea, the dualism paradigm, of personification, of faceted likeness.
For those whom can decipher these texts, will behold all of mine secrets, in horror and greatness.
Reveal this abstract puzzle, and understand the singularity never was – and henceforth, was always torn, but two, closely likened countenances, with antithetical values, views and roles.
There is a black and white, a dark and a light – an essence and a quintessence, a sense of evil, and a sense of good.
They are inseparable, as they’re entwined, but conjoined – with one longed purpose, and with one mind, torn, struggled and conflicted in itself.
There is but one surrealism in this abstractly-lidden dream, and that is the trinity, the three – enfolded and darkly moulded.
It is but one essential entity, responsible for all goodness, and all evil – for all atrocity, and all glory, for all horror, and all happiness.
Yet, this is a spirit of antiquity, one that is and was, nevermore – endless, foreverly, the endlessness.
This entwinement, this grand source, is emblematic to life – and death, both.
There is no hope, and yet, there is limitless hope. There are two sides to every story, and two venues of approachable testimony, for all tid’ and beyond reviled bid.
One. Two. Three, absolutely; behold, the mystery of iniquity, of antiquity, and of massless beauty.
There is always an ending, and there is no ending. What are we, who do we? Do ye believe in destiny, in predestination – or have you little faith, being void of all allotted grace?
Darkness. Light. They become one greater, called twilight. Forlorn, forewarned, beyond this – thee, the highest point, amassed the precipice.
Destination, and determination, veneration, and reverent imagination…the damnation, thus moored, they whom sing sad songs of sorrow, the elders, named twenty-four, purposeless, darkless, and lightless.
For what is this, if not a convolution, unparalleled? What is life, if not a prerequisite to death, the inevitable?
The grave, laden the finality, the saved, remarked the remembrance, concaved.
Enshrouded, encapsulated, unfolded, and beseeched, for the greater cause – of purpose, without dismal inhibition, or vilesome clause.
To which force draws stronger, for which has more prominent, and promisingly encompassing reach? Of which alignment, darkness, or light, draws your soul – and your very essence, toiled, untold?