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Thoughts on Lyssa

August 16, 2009

Lyssa is madness. She is perfect imperfection, unbalanced balance, sane insanity. She is everything and nothing; she is man and god and the entire world. She does not care for trivialities such as sin and virtue – she is beyond thought, beyond emotion, beyond comprehension. She thrives in disorder, in chaos, and she nursed both Love and Strife in her manic, quivering arms. Heat and cold means nothing to her; love and hate plays no part in her world; she is beyond the whims of the other gods and yet bound by them, bound to do their will.

She is the world, the chaos, the pulsing need to live or die. Children and gods alike feel her pulsing fury. She drives sword against sword, child against child, and laughs as she dances on the graves of those who aren’t strong enough to stand against her. (But who is strong enough? Certainly not a mere human – she is Beyond such things as humanity and infinity.) She leans on the arm of War and kisses his cheeks with her blood-stained lips, then spins away to whisper to in Wisdom’s uncaring ear.

She lives: she thrives in disorder, in upsetting the balance. She doesn’t just blur the lines: she smashes them apart with her fists and her teeth, and she snaps at the throats of any who would try to stop her. She is Art, she is the Abyss. She does not stop to think about consequences, or the right way, or the greater good. She lives for herself, for her own pulsing hungers, and she does not care who knows that.

She is life, she is death; for what is living if not insanity? She nips at and kisses those who succumb to madness, who spend their days in her circling, smiling darkness. Her Maniai dance around her, cracking the bones of those who dared to enter her lair – and died for their impiety. She does not waste time with fancies; she is those fancies. She is fetishes, she is sex; she is slick, thrumming blood. She is eternal, and she is In This Moment. She breathes rot and insanity into the air, and she strokes at her dog-skin hat with truly loving hands.

She is born of Ouranos’ pain. She is the twin of Aphrodite and the Erinyes, born of blood and loss and love and hate. Aphrodite drew the dominion of love and hate; the Erinyes drew loss and blood; and she drew all and none, everything and nothing. She is not rooted to the world by material need – she seeps from the veins of one man to the next, rousing murderers and sending minds into her domain of madness. She is sent by the other gods to torture the impious; she dances between Hades, the human world and Mount Olympus, moving faster than lightning, faster than fire, faster than life.

She visits asylums and torments those who gaze upon her bloodied face, smiling and laughing at them with her jagged shark’s teeth. She is not concerned with a single mortal life; and yet, paradoxically, she is deeply concerned with those who snare her interest. She is madness, she is obsession, she is insanity, she is frenzy. She crashes her hands over the ears of animals and man alike and makes them spit with her fury – a bare sliver of the rage she feels (always feels), but enough to make their minds spin and their eyes roll. She is life, she is death: she is sex, she is despair: she is love and she is hate, and she is nothing at all.

She is madness. She is Lyssa.

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