Infatuation with the dark usually stems from the desire to step away from the concept of love without having to compromise the love that is already within one's self. It usually is created to fill the gaps between sorrow, depression and that idea of longing for someone or something either intentional or involuntary. The longer the time lapses, the larger the consequences take its toll upon that said person and it usually begins in a scornful way, much more so when the vulnerability of the victim is at its lowest point. There begins that lingering idea of suicide, sadomasochism and most common among its vile ways, use of drugs. But there are some of those that survive that moment in time without succumbing to the treachery of human stain. These people form a bond with themselves greater than the bond they usually share with their parents, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, sometimes even God Himself. The central idea that forms within that person begins to make an understanding of the limited prowess of his or her own potential, forms a pact between themselves, pushes through and lives their lives knowing fully well what grave actions they may conjure and achieve. That same cycle will penetrate even the highest of the high and the poorest omadhaun. Thus begins fascism of the soul, and the soul of the soul, and the corruption of the young, and the insufficiency of justice.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.