Haunt Hunt, But No Goth Cunt
I’ll admit a certain kinship with ghosts and legendary creatures — as well as those who hunt them. I have a fascination with the thin walls of this world — or more accurately, their parting. I enjoy watching where they rip, and peering past such improbable, flimsy, restraints into what lies beyond.
I love where science meets faith and they challenge one another, head on; but unlike like rams at rut, the challenge is more probing and filled with awe. It’s like sex. Like good sex.
I like questioning what’s here as well as what is, if anything, beyond; and I aspire to create or recreate such possibilities for myself.
But I am no latitudinarian when it comes to the current use of the word “Gothic” and have even less use for those who call themselves “Goth”; for the most part they’ve taken all the quest, questioning, and longing out of it.
Gothic isn’t all dark pessimism; like the architecture, the true philosophy of “Gothic” reaches for the heavens.
Ogive arches simultaneously point to heaven yet acquiesce to the burden, directing the force & weight of the burdens of such an improbable reach. They are designed to both create the light & provide the structure. Thus the imposing structures are as uplifting as they are intimidating.
Spires, like the obelisks before them, were as much spears as prayers. Each spire a show of strength, a demand, an impotent quest… A phallus thrusting for admission, the aching alms of humanity constructed in entreaty and defiance. And wonder.
Lacking in spires leaves one emotionally, and literally, without aspirations. This is why, even when spires were lost quickly — within just a few short years crumbling & falling from their heights — they are etched in our minds. Their visual ambitions are recalled; remembered not for failure, but honored for the balls & glory to try.
When those self-described Gothic persons only see or believe in “darkness” and “gloom” without reaching, without romance, they’ve made it as base as fucking.
It is true that you must omit light to have utter darkness; but to believe it is simple to do, to ignore the battle & dismiss the conquest is folly. Where light probes dark, where dark resists & envelopes light, where one forces the other to give way and submit, this is where the beauty of possibility lies.
Simply starting from, or existing only in, darkness is to miss the the contrast, the interplay.
slivers of light, shivers of delight
despair in the dark, declare in the dark
When people forget to reach for (let alone acknowledge) the light, they miss the beauty. But I thrill at such purpose of discovery.
I find it stimulating how the unknown curls into a ball to protect itself from the parry and thrust of intellect, how beauty cannot be dissected & replicated as the sum of its parts, how seeking is as much about the love & adoration as it is the desire to know — it must be, for we know we are doomed from the start. We are either doomed to remain ignorant, doomed to our discoveries and have the magic removed, or doomed to only have more questions. We know this, and yet we continue anyway.
I arouse at the intercourse of light and dark, finger tips of one penetrating the other, in the push-comes-to-shove exploration of faith and science in the pursuit of truth… Where force may oft be best plied as a reverent whisper, and the brute force of denial may result in our own scream of anguish. And either may be the surprising key to open the door.
This is why I like power play, power exchange, BDSM, whatever you call it. It’s probing, challenging, illumination, squelching… The twisting turns of our bodies and souls. The awe.
It’s where the spill of release may be as readily achieved by a soft moan in the ear as it is by a cruel word spate in harsh tones… a feathery touch on a tender place, followed by the hard crack of leather.
Tell me you “can’t come that way” and I’ll apply my knowledge of you, leveraging your grey matter as well as your physical parts at precise points, until I have you drooling like Pavlov’s dog from your genitals — the orgasm at the end of the world, rending the fabric of your reality.
For you, the sub, it is in the darkness of subspace that you find illumination, salvation, and the desire for more; the soft grey veils part, exposing glimpses of additional mystery. For me, the Domme, a chance to regain, however slight, access to the very same. Even if only in my subs eyes and sighs…
Or perhaps it is I who acquiesces, and you who shines light on the way…
Oh, heavens — this devious angel has long missed you.
I continue to arch and reach for these heavenly places.