Solomon Princebell Lives Forever!

     

    Hello all, Zeer here, this is something different- akin to the 'Nowhere Man' post. Enjoy!

Cherished Aria,

See that a pleasant wherever-tide be rendered on you along with the satisfaction of reading this pathetically useless confessional of mine. Certainly—and certainly you know, I have heard and even elected to welcome your words, biting as they are, into my great solemn hall. That is, inwards to such great accounts and reflections, of which my mind is capable. And like blackguard knives they tortured my thoughts sufficiently—poking so incessantly, incessantly over and over. And they agitate so well in fact my senses fail me duly and I taste a sickeningly potent iron finding respite in my tongue… Tis enough posturing, surely, but I truly wish—with all that I am able, to allow you a glimpse towards even a hint of the truest madness that which has ravaged the abhorrent and ugly meadows of Seymour Paarl… as you have figured yourself selfishly. But selfish as you are, I could never beg difference. Even more, I am a hundred-fold, nay, an uncountably more reproachable man when compared to you, cherished ‘foe-riend’.

Undeniably, I am naught when deprived of dearest Solomon Princebell, alter-ego, mask, and good friend. Seymour Paarl, has, and will have to continue his existence as sub-standard to man and his joys, a husk presenting as man masking his uselessness, sullied evermore and forevermore with free will’s cruelty. Lamentably, no more rebuttals sit nor come next to one poorest as me, so sat down I am, confronted by a gaping empty, again sat down I am—with ink stayed and thus laying decimation at a heap of white leaves, staring gaunt forward and straightly, taken by an abyssal sorrow… That great greyest beyond, damnable nothing, so too, finds my eyes. So taken was the writer by it— By such chilling hollow seeping like torrential rain to the gutter, but such into his soul, that he… I, took redemption, reaped life from it, and so it lay deep in eldritch recesses, otherwise, forgotten in my labyrinthine mind. Lay indefinitely there, I had hope it would, as forthwith, decisive impulse takes cue and moves the writer to the only natural conclusion to the farcical insult of life, Seymour Paarl. Written down so it shall, deigning towards reading it means damnation and decimation, cold and cruelly to soul and mind. Much more horribly, it replicates his own.

See, in lew of writing fairy-tales and whimsy fantasy of the likes I stalk and pine towards so obsessively… The obsession mutates unknowably into a mangled facsimile of talent, talent of the like is erroneous, praised as it is. Such lies and mental damage only carries on for a mileage not so favourably distant nor attractive, yet held on did he, for he, in his fault of existence, sickened and deceived by hope and maturity, had neither. Oh great sorrow, lament, lament, lament! Such foolishness… Would you dearly lament it? Would in action it harken disturbance so gargantuan, so inextricable to your string of life and living, of fates and futilities? Oh abandon hope, twas all relayed. That writing plainly visible, written in blood since his immemorial youth, invisible to the writer! Travesty surely! Great travesty for dreamers of lucid romantics, unexplainable creations, for poets called upon with reverence, pleading, driving, calling respect, and respectfully revered to reverently respected… No wound so bloody, nothing so unforgivable when even their pages incinerate like kindling for ignorance… Yes, nothing so terrible against the blind writer, incapable, pathetically, of writing any truths, precisely ones inward and principally subjective to personhood, truths which parade the art of word amd wordplay. That to lack, is failure to a laughable—utterly and extremely—standard.

And what happens to the lonely facade, the farcical alter, Solomon? Unshaken be and forevermore so too. That is fate, the natural progression for our Princebell, the familiar has naught the sully, the folly, of its daemonical conjurer. For in sin, it exercises no will of freedom, no sentience in action… So too doth mask hide intention whether it would like too or otherwise. In simplicity, Solomon Princebell lives forever and even yet the true farce fades painfully. Seymour Paarl, is that lamentable farce— So pitiable yet never pitied, love abandoned and threw to the street, and so without it did Paarl unintentionally fulminate his sickness. Unwanted was that sickness, as sickness ought to be, so to be outside and condemned the sickness lay festering… Following it too was the origin, and Paarl made do with suffocating loneliness, sufficiently too. Idolising the collective, as together no weakness shall be found, the vile child had felt want, but wanting was his greatest and most unforgivable sin, his fault to the end. And then his second was to hope, for to hope was to forego collective and to sate self. Such cruel sins had tricked and pretensed the vile child from his place in the world, that is, to be abandoned in filth and to fester till death do come. And with that pretence he felt he needed not wanted, such foolishness was to be punished as mercilessly, as inhumanely, as pitiless, and as severely as when a man betrays his nation, his faith, and his love. So the vile child bled disgustingly. And let it bleed, I say… Let it bleed.

How ugly was hope and want, unfitting for the vile child, now a grown man. And through blood still he did not yet learn. Blind was he to the red, foolishly, as it would lead to more sickening, more ugly insults to existence, of which he hath already brought enough. Overflowing the world with wickedness, with failure, he had came to the very revelation here. No redemption for cursed, for broken, unwanted and unfixable fellows. He was damned, and he knew it dearly, painfully, and rightly so was it painful, so agonising. Running vainly from strings and bounds that bind and sear deeply into flesh and bone, all the way to soul, he ran and ran and ran and ran, and down and down and down and down. Did he go. Once, all to ahead the man did call, arms to war, for belief and all, glory awaits us, stand tall, stand tall, arm your hands, see your enemies fall, fall, fall, fall, arm your hands, for belief and all. Ringing deeply, shaking violently through the grounds of which stood man, a call to action, glory to behold even for those behest to none. Want and hope did yet again peer such ugly thoughts deeply into the labyrinth of filth, and again did the fool, Paarl, listen intently. To arms my brothers along the line, marching to glory, to glorious battle… Only to find the greatest punishment, a torturous meal with loss and pain as its grim main course, a hideous and macabre playground of man’s worst tendency let loose upon and on the world, a chaotic and incomprehensible threnody of never ending screams that shake strong men to their core, and leave husks in the wake, a wasteland and desolation of crimson filth littering the razed land, imbedded now with corpse and that which dwells in that such bodily filth and ruin.

Out came a broken man, unfixable man, unwanted man. Ostracised with no recourse, for losing the right fight, for fighting the wrong fight, for daring to win against good, for losing against what is evil, for sowing extreme and excessive death, for not killing excessively enough. Just what will be their grievance today…? So the world itself numbed and emptied, reduced into absolute nothing as the droning hate drowns out all semblance of self and soul, of personhood, of meaning, the men who fought and were unlucky to live… Disappeared—and silently too. A silent extinction with no sorrow felt or tears shed, no insurmountable grief to process, no missing to burden the social and moral soul, nothing for the broken men, unfixable men, unwanted men. Oh who shall cry for those abandoned by our holy mother, by our greatest civilizations? No person, thing, idea… Nothing for them, as damned and as hideous as they are, and oh how hideous to be sullied as such! How worthless you shall become to be unwell, to be scarred, to be broken after a jaunt through hell…! And how scarred he was, punished again, as mercilessly, as inhumanely, as pitiless, and as severely, if not more so than before. For it was just right that the vile child killed in mind and soul, so too it shall be to scar him in body too. Leave nothing for the fool who dreamt and yearned… What a fool, a fool, a fool, a fool, a heinous, vile, and unworthy fool to be him, to dare to want, to hope.

True ugliness apparent on every piece of self measurable, his mind now plagued with incoherent, truly eldritch horrors unexplainable to anyone by anyone, unknowable to anyone and not wanted to be known by anyone. His soul lacerated time and time again with the rending precision of myriad bladed whips, mangled and twisted, it moved ugly from one place and paced to another, more bizarre difference. His body now disfigured and shattered, unable to be fixed it stands horrifyingly close to grotesque beast and mangled amalgam crossed, unable to be loved it writhes in chronic, excruciating pain. Not one person could seriously value this abhorrent mutant masquerading as man before its extreme deformation, it’s hilarious and deserved fall from grace. Now not even the Gods themselves would accept such a laughingstock of existence… Even for sacrifice. Oh how fitting the vile child forevermore be unwanted. How foolish to think he could take his life and spin it around… One cannot spin rocks into gold, much less when you have to spin a life worth less than even filth and shit into anything acceptable. But, the temptation of hope and want descended once more to see if he had learned his lesson. It came as Solomon Princebell—as you know very well.

Fools never learn, tempted again, Paarl, the bastard of existence, took what he perceived, foolishly—as is his wont to, as a chance. And look where it has led him. In the end, Solomon Princebell lives forever… and Seymour Paarl shall fade away in excruciating pain. Yes, maybe finally that vile child has learned his lesson? That his place is below even the dead and even then, those below death would scoff and wretch at him? Who knows? Though I must admit that you, Aria, were a truly effective agent of fate, you fae-like fiend, you cherishable nymph, you. What a gambit to make me believe you had loved me so? No one loves a daemon, a dremor, and surely not a fae, an aelid. Oh and how impressively my heart yet bleeds for love in the face of your hatred, perhaps in that regard, no, he has not learned his lesson. Instead maybe, he has simply found peace in his end…? How unfitting that would be. Still how foolish, how so very foolish, tragic, it may even teeter… But foolish it surely is, and will forever be.

Eternally yours— your wishes notwithstanding,

Seymour Paarl

Do not look for me.