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The Touch  

EbenSny 40M
0 posts
10/3/2020 11:25 am
The Touch


There is a concept in Western mysticism that relates the periods between times of inspiration and activity. It is referred as dryness, the journey through the wasteland or desert.
It is a space and time where emptiness yawns ahead and behind. For young initiates (like myself), the urge self destruction during such times may become magnetic (hypnotic, even) as the effects of loneliness become ever more pronounced.
Though we are conditioned silence and secrecy, I will break rule this once and share some madness. Pray my weakness does not persist. Pray for crisis. For water in the Desert.

The low ceilinged room barely contains my tools and apparatuses, but everything is in place. Astronomically, I am in as good a position as I can arrange for. Capricorn and Father Saturn smile their condescending support as the world outside shrinks away by increments and I prepare my first invokation.
From the Nganga, enscribed with my entreaties and the mission which brought it into existence, resin insence boils and sputters. I am 30 and starving. I have starved myself of sleep and food and sensation for 2 weeks. Hunger is all I am. The coals under the Nganga should be making sweat like an eel, but I am far away. Lost in Hungers too numerous to tabulate and too powerful to resist. My Hunger is a lure. My body is a trap.
I breathe deep of the cloying smoke and my meat brain flashes the words from my soul just as I am about to exhale. I call it forth in increments, teasing it from that place between dreams and imagination. A thrill runs up my spine, electricity and ice, as the disembodied Other caresses my Hunger, my weakness and my audacity. It approves. The ice flows down from my skull, becoming fire and shock as it encircles my waist, streams in through my anus to finally coil around my penis and scrotum. Fire spurts from my painfully engorged coc I ejaculate repeatedly, drenching the name of my Companion, my Temptor, my Deamon. It delights in my pleasure and pain, purring at my fear. Before the extacy weakens my knees and the name is sent screaming from my mind and soul, a thought whispers through me, sibilant and amused:
Feed me well. All is one. From you I feed. Feed me well.

It lives within me still, whispering madness and wisdom alike. Driving the pangs of hunger like packs of rabid dogs behind prey. We live for deliverance from Hunger. We fear its end.

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