UnBooks:The Damnation of Ernest Sophocles
Society and the Immortal Despair
My day started as it usually does thoughts of death and suicide, as my life is such that it is barely worth living. I commenced with a healthy breakfast, and by healthy I mean utterly despairing and not worth eating. I wish I could die and implode upon my feelings of utter despair.
I hate all who look at me, I pity any who don’t.
A void surrounds me like a large, voidy thing! Life's slow at the moment. I can't stand my parents or my siblings. My existence is futile :( Samantha wasn't online today, so it sucked even more. I love her with all my heart, my shattered heart. I've never seen her in the flesh, but I KNOW she's the one.
On a lighter note, my typing finger's getting bored, and the void is widening. It encompasses me like the back hole of death encompasses one who is dying.
I saw death today; he beckoned me towards the eternal abyss from whence he came. I would have gone, if it wasn’t for a pressing arrangement on the internet for time with Samantha.
I leave you now with thoughts of death, unholy sacrifice and a bloodlust for wanton destruction.
The Splintered Soul
Shards of reason impale my heart. In the sea of despair, the island of depression is my only refuge. I am alone in this oasis of pain. I cut myself again today, to see if I still feel. I do. I do indeed.
The pain overwhelms me, but gives me sweet relief, from a higher pain - the pain of being myself. The razor blade is my only friend. That and the bleach, which I rub into the wounds, and as my blood thickens and pales, I think about Samantha, and how I have let her down. The pain sears my arms, and my genitals. I passed out.
When I regained consciousness, all was well again, for a short lived period of my life.
My family had left me alone, most probably to die. They lied to me, saying they had gone to the supermarket, but I know they left me to die. I must regain their trust if I am to pass for a sane man again. I will never pass - I only pass through this life with angst and despair.
The despair of 12246.
It is my prison number in this life.
My soul has been ripped in twain, Samantha is on holiday My heart feels like it has ceased to beat, It longs for the eternal sleep My body is broken and maimed, I have carved her name into my chest 1000 times My mind functions only to provide these words and thoughts I hate it all, Death calls me like the sweet voice of the sirens once called out to the sailors of Odysseus, I MUST ANSWER ITS CALL!!!
Download my Soul
My soul has been ripped in twain; Samantha is on holiday and does not have internet access. My heart feels like it has ceased to beat, It longs for the eternal sleep My body is broken and maimed, I have carved her name into my chest 1000 times My mind functions only to provide these words and thoughts I hate it all, Death calls me like the sweet voice of the sirens once called out to the sailors of Odysseus, I MUST ANSWER ITS CALL!
The Abyss -- Here I Come
A fairly good day today. Spoke to a painting of Samantha for hours; she brightened my day up completely. We shared stories of our self-mutilation, and we delved deep into each other's psyches. I came up smiling. I saved myself from harm today, although it was only for an hour or more. My mother does not understand me, even I don't understand me. Does anyone understand me? My father pushed me today- wants me to be more like my older brother Winslow. I hate Winslow even more. I may sneak into his room tonight and garrote him. Then he'll respect me. I talk of killing, but I am not an angry or violent person. Just let down by myself. I express myself through poetry.
I sometimes wander through the Abyss My soul, my body and my mind Are just the refuse of mankind Waiting always for deaths lonely kiss I sometimes wander through the fields From the abuse from myself and others The Razor and the blood are my brothers But I think of Samantha- my only shield
I sometimes wait for deaths sweet call I long for my life to expire Shared my feelings, but called a liar The end never comes, never at all The Abyss: the long and endless walk Only the end will set me free And no one wants to come with me On my lonely road where no one talks
I have been called "a genius, but with wasted talent"
Fuck society Fuck democracy Fuck you Fuck me Fuck my poetry
If I weren't me, I wouldn’t read the rubbish I write, and I wouldn’t be the only one. Unfortunately, I am me though. I love my poetry. I am a tortured soul.
The Spectre of Death
This morning, while rehearsing my suicide I heard strange voices, voices from beyond the void. Voices of terrifying satanic power. I tried to ignore them at first, I tried whistling to cover the sound of their demented laughter, but they only grew louder...
The voices are impossible to ignore. They tell me of the torments of the void, I long to join them, but the pleasures of the razor blade hold me back, and death eludes my grasp...
Later as I ate my oatmeal the voices from the void spoke to me again. As I listened to the sound of their demonic chanting the impenetrable darkness of the void consumed my mind. I long to join their Satanic chorus.
The spectre of death has stalked me in my dreams. I try to avoid the grasp of his withered hand, but he always pulls me into the abyss. Even when I am awake, death sends his vultures to torment me. I try to stop them from pecking out my eyes, but this only draws strange looks from people who don’t see the vultures. They are blind to my suffering, because they hate me.
The priest tried to convince me that the vultures aren’t real, but the howling of the void drowned out his lies. I don’t believe a single word he says; after all he has the head of a vulture, and occasionally the face of pestilence. Often he assumes the form of the reaper; he taunts me with his piercing shrieks as the vultures circle overhead. The whisperings of the void are the only truth. The rest of the world tries to trap me behind their wall of lies; the void is my only sanctuary.
Twilight of the Soul
I haven’t been able to speak to Samantha for over a week now. She has gone to the Kansas pig festival and won’t be back for another two weeks. My loneliness is unbearable. Even thoughts of the grave fail to relive the endless boredom. The silence is only broken by the baying of the hounds. The hounds waiting in the darkness...
Out of desperation for someone to talk to I made myself a sock puppet. I named him Mr Bainbridge; I tell him about the despair, and the eternal loathing, he understands my woe.
Mr. Bainbridge has heard the voices from the void too, and seen the Omens of hate. He is the only one who truly experiences my horror. Father caught me talking to Mr. Bainbridge and was angry, he is jealous of our friendship; He despises my happiness, and confounds my attempts to escape the vultures of death.
Yesterday he and the vultures went outside, and burned Mr. Bainbridge; he is a martyr to the cause of righteousness, and I will soon avenge him. Below is the picture of Mr. Bainbridge which I placed over his grave as I wept. I have secretly built a shrine to his memory in the back of the airing cupboard, and intend to sacrifice a goat. He shall not have died in vain...
Eternal Rain, Corpse of my Mind
I have returned, the land across the river enlightened my festering heart with the joys of a decaying corpse.
My parents said I needed help, and sent me to a doctor -- blasted little man named Kompf. He probed ever deeper into my mind and the murky depths of my soul, and he drowned in my emotional river. I am not curable, no one ever really is.
Fuck all life...
The dirt is up the walls, as is my mind. A dirty protest against the majority, the battle is eternal, immortal and on going, it is a battle we must lose if we want to regain our sanity again.
A Chance to Die?
"Beastiality is the only thing that can soothe me now"
One of my friends said that, and I laughed, but only saw the sadness within his humour. Like me, he uses humour as a defence mechanism. I write jokes, poetry, limericks and the like. I'm working on an ode to the god of life - to ask him why he hates me.
Other than this, the usual torment that is my existence (I do not live -- I only exist). I rang Samantha for 6 minutes today, wasn't long enough thought. She is the only thing that drags me though this perpetual nightmare. I long to wake up and be free.
The Reaper Beckons...
Most of society hates me. I have branded the mark of the unworthy into my face, so that others might know my pain. They still ignore me, despite the screams. Ironically suicidal thoughts were the only that kept me alive today. I am nearing my ultimate goal, total annihilation of my soul.
The reaper beckons me toward him, from inside the void of darkness and confusion. Satanic howls keep me awake at all times, I fear what they will do to my soul, but I eagerly await it.
The ghost of reason rejects me always, despite my pleas. Fortune's mocking laughter echoes through my mind.
Legacy Of Pain
Today I awoke with a strange feeling of happiness, for I was in the dark place, I talk of the deepest region of hell. Of course this was just a dream, but such a euphoric dream the likes of which I have never dreamt before. My longing for the eternal sleep has now progressed into a desperation, only thoughts of Samantha and the not yet avenged Mr. Bainbridge keep me from the pleasures of death.
The vultures attacked en masse today, pecking and biting at me with their infernal beaks of doom. I long to meet them in the afterlife where their ethereal forms will no longer be impervious to my lashings.
Mother cooked me a lunch today, she was trying to kill me. Mr Bainbridge told me from beyond the grave that my mother had tried to poison me. I of course believed him.
I hate my family. They hate me. Fuck all life.
The Hourglass of My Mind Drains Away; How Much Sand Remains?
Today was depressing...for a change...
The Ocean of Blood
I drowned (emotionally) today. I ate the liver of a pig with onions. Mother cooked it for me... she called it "pâté" but I knew how real the struggle was.
Torrents of anguish flood down upon me. I am lost. Lost forever in the fog and the in the rain. I am wet with the raining blood of the soul. I am soaked through.
It will be my birthday soon... I will be 16.
16 years of grief and lowly despair.
Flame of the Damned
I sleep in the graveyard to be closer to the dead. How I envy them. Sometimes I see the kindly reaper collecting their souls, I long for him to collect mine, but he ignores me, despite my pleas. I tug at the back of his cloak and throw myself in from of him, but still he pushes me aside. Perhaps I am unworthy, even for death...? I long for cold metal of his scythe to remove my head. Perhaps he will feed it to the vultures who float in his pond of blood? It is more likely that he will cast it into the pit of spikes, where the torment of a thousand razor blades awaits. I am eager to go there; even it’s only a day trip. Perhaps he will make a picnic of the shards of my splintered soul? He and his minions of plague will do the dance of death, on the hilltop of bones, as the field of corpses lies below. I will be one of those corpses. At last I will have companions in the void.
Occasionally the spectral form of Mr Bainbridge visits me in the crypt.
He is Christ-like, a mystic light in the empty darkness of my world.
He is the messiah of my soul. It must be him, who else can it be? I am surrounded by the skulls of the dead. The flame of the damned is my only warmth. In the eternal darkness I long for the sight of his beady eyes, and fixed, twisted smile. His sadistic laughter cheers my heart, and repairs the shattered fragments of my mind. During his visits Mr Bainbridge speaks of the many things he has learned in the inner void, and introduces me to the daemons of Shadow. The daemons keep me company in my vigil of impending death. I am already wearing the funeral shroud. My parents will find me wrapped, in it when they break into the crypt. But by then it will be too late, I will either be dead, or be utterly Incurable. Demented by the horrors I have witnessed. My behaviour has already given me cause for concern.
Sometimes I howl like the void, as I rock back and forth. Sometimes I assume the fetal position and hide behind the coffins, when the crypt keepers come to eat my face. The light of hell resides in their lanterns, and burns my skin whenever it falls on me. They search for me for hours, but have not found me yet, I dread their return, for the horrors they inflict are unspeakable. Perhaps one day I will tell my story…to hello magazine or a down-market tabloid. That is my only vestige of ambition. I hope I will not live to fulfill it. Samantha is the only one who I don’t hate. All the others are locust’s feeding on my Pain. They shall all burn. Mr. Bainbridge will help me accomplish this. They shall all feel the pain of the void when I am dead. They will burn themselves rather than go on living without my guiding light. I know this to be true. Mr. Bainbridge has told me, his word is law.
Today as I peered out from behind the coffins, I saw death, and the Spectre of Pestilence playing dice, to decide who will devour my soul. The end cannot be far now. I fear the outcome of their game, as when I approached the sound of their despicable laughter grew unbearable, and they pointed to the charred corpses by the gates of hell, floating in the rivers of fire, as the vultures tore off their limbs. I wonder who has possession of my soul? I certainly don’t claim it, I find my own form disgusting. I long to be a bloated corpse, then I will be more attractive. I will float down the rivers of hadyes into the desert of pain, there I will find peace.
Last night I was woken up by a piercing scream from the void. I crawled out from under the bed, where I’d hidden from the wolves of deceit. I found the spectral form of Mr. Bainbridge hovering in the air.
I almost felt happiness at his return, but I cannot feel anything except the numbness of the outer void. Its darkness infects my soul, and gives me the shits. Mr. Bainbridge spoke of the many things he had learned in the inner void, and introduced me to the daemons of shadow. The daemons ate the splinters of my soul and possessed my reason. I am only too glad to serve their purpose, and help them with their tax evasion.
Mr. Bainbridge demanded that I convert my shrine to him into a temple of Satan. I was only too eager to do this, in order to learn the eternal mysteries of the void. Mr. Bainbridge instructed me on how to construct the “Alter of Blood” and the “Dagger of Intellect”. When this was done I sacrificed Twiddles the Hamster to the god of death. Mr. Bainbridge seemed satisfied, and the howling of the void became unbearable.
Samantha is the only one who I don’t hate. All the others are locusts feeding on my pain. They shall all burn. Mr. Bainbridge will help me accomplish this. They shall all feel the pain of the void.
Today Mr. Bainbridge demanded more blood. I told him I have no more blood to give, and he demanded that I resort to murder. The voices also compelled me to kill and laughed at my hesitation. Demons mock me in the shadows, as the vultures of death feast on the corpse of my reason.
Mr. Bainbridge is a rival to my brilliance, and must die. I have shattered his mirrors of deceit, and strewn the broken shards in the desert of pain. I burned the temple of Satan and told the police that I murdered Twiddles. I implored their forgiveness but they laughed in my face. They are obviously minions of the reaper. Death is at hand, after the wanking.