A bit of my prologue

Well in my last post, I mentioned that I’ll post a bit of a book I was working on. Well, I found something, But it’s now what I was looking for exactly. I doubt anyone reads this anyway, so dark void of the Google machine…. Enjoy.


Prologue



A dark soft candle should be your mindset for the divine, macabre journey that you've embarked upon. Delving into the art of a Master painter or a blood and urine soaked canvass of a patient whose guiding lights are the voices in his head, directing his hand. The Devils plaything? Or the art of a higher divinity needing to express a thought or a moment that is solely their own?
I have no name, but there are some who call me Odium, Fault or Ire. To some also, I am known as Hate or to others insight or inspiration.
I revel in despair and haunt the agony of the desperate and depressed. Filling their mind's with untruth and chaos. Turning them into someone, or something, like myself. It is for this reason that I journey through the Gallery Angelo's. A sort of affirmation of what has happened, what is happening and what may come to pass.
For myself, I view this place as a shrouded house of angst, a veiled home for my own personal sorrow and unhappiness. If I could cry, torrents of anguish would be set loose upon the great unwashed. But I cannot.
Instead, I articulate my own animus and sorrow through writing, music, or art. All painstakingly done through the medium of other creators. I am a muse of mal du siecle. However, the pious imagery that I've inspired through the centuries is my most precious. The ethereal divinities, be they good or bad, Seraphim or Succubus, I adore only these, as they are all I have.
The galleries have been visited by many. Some become enamored with what they find and experience, while others become terrified with some drawn to madness, and death. It is always these instances where I feel utter bliss.

Here, this place, Is like an angry voice that keeps us quiet. It keeps my sweet confessions beneath my tongue. These walls adorned with the victorious divine are like my children, born in Sodom, raised in Gomorra. Grown into men and women raised on the rod with a whip in hand.
The corridors fill me with certain trepidation that I long for and miss when the doors are shut, but upon them being open, I'm afraid that this place will devour me.

Through all of the galleries that I have created, the Gallery of Suicide, the Gallery of Decompose, or the Gallery of Rage, none can compare to this. The Gallery, my Gallery, brings meaning to this sorrow filled void that I've made my home. The savagery saturates into the walls and the floor, enveloping all who venture fourth to view the cadaverous divine. Wonderfully transcendent effigies given through me to those who needed them. Be it good or bad, they were needed.
Amassing such a collection of rapturous portrayals has been daunting but for the joy they bring me and the grief they brought to others, all was worth it.