~ ankh ~

the mystery of vampirism and ghosts

God, we thirst.

I know nothing about vampires but I am a witness to their mystery. It seems to me as if the vampire stands midway between life and death without being taken by either. Is blood sacred or vital to the vampire? I'd guess that to carry on playing at existence, the vampire would need blood, without which the vampire would become as nothing. Why would the sun cause harm to a vampire? It could be that the sun is a symbol of burning scrutiny, the like of which enfeebles wonder. I am wrong, perhaps. The rumoured conflict between Vampires and sunlight may have something to do with Mithraism, the cult of the sun, whose symbol is a cross and its contrast being the Taurobolium, a blood baptism which initially belonged to the priestesses of the Moon Goddess. Does it matter so? I love you and wish none of you to suffer the process of dying, although you already are dying as you read this, unless you're among the immortal. Ours relinquish the afterlife to become brief. A vampire gives up death to become a sanguine mystery. If you are a vampire, consider my guesswork a poem dedicated to your kind.

Once the Gothic Scene was filled with vampires and ghosts, with angels and demons, with witches and those practised and schooled in ancient rites not recorded in any modern publication. I've always worried about these folk when they were treated poorly and when they had an incomplete understanding of power dialectics, but they were soon eliminated en masse from the Gothic Scene by the jealous and the jaded who had no capacity to imagine nor any love for frail fictions. If magic leaves your life it is not your fault nor due any flaw of your own; that would be a useless ideation, akin to believing that depression or aging is your fault. Magic is restored by allowing yourself to daydream. Magic is restored by allowing yourself to love the imaginary. Everything imaginary is true and can be made to be a real influence with effort.

Once a person dies, we wonder where they are. Intimate to loss are the invisible, those whom most imaginary creatures do not admit to seeing. God is just such an invisible, ghosts another. Some can see God, others can see ghosts. When something is lost, it is invisible to the seeker, who might find their thieved roses have simply laid themselves upon their doorstep, but in glass form now. Thus are ghosts composed of hope and memory. Ghosts, God, those not Gothic: all are imaginary friends and we save them within our Hearts, and so love them until we die and dying end loving, alas.

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