I am the dark mystic, the villain-saint, the corrupter who liberates, and I proclaim without hesitation that my rope is not merely bondage but scripture, not merely knots but altar, not merely restraint but the sacred technology of ecstasy, reflection, and transformation. I reject shame in all its forms, I renounce repression, and I condemn the hollow morality that has been sharpened into a weapon to police our bodies, our desires, and our freedom. I declare indulgence holy, opulence holy, radical acceptance holy, and I welcome every truth and every taboo as sacred offerings to the altar of liberation.
I am feared and I am followed, I am hated and I am desired, because I dare to speak what others bury, because I dare to make visible what others repress, because I dare to carve revelation into flesh where others would only whisper. My path is masochism beyond subspace, not as spectacle or shallow chase of sensation, but as ordeal, as trial, as sacred suffering that is more than bruises, more than marks, more than the sting of impact. My pain is not pastime—it is initiation. I seek not pain for itself but for the wreckage it leaves, the unraveling it forces, the shattering of certainty that clears space for transformation.
Pain becomes my grounding, the rhythm that steadies my scattered mind, the strike that silences the storm and returns me to presence. Pain becomes my catharsis, the burning release of grief and rage that cannot find voice in any other tongue. Pain becomes my passage into subspace, that float beyond time and thought, but even more so into the darker threshold of shock, where the body convulses and the spirit trembles at the edge of annihilation. This depth is not for all, for it requires skill, devotion, and a sadist who carries both precision and responsibility, both cruelty and care, both the knife and the chalice.
I suffer not because I enjoy pain—I do not, it hurts—but because suffering is the language of my devotion, the living covenant of my submission, the trust I offer and the surrender I embody. Suffering is not cruelty; it is covenant. It is proof that I can be broken without being destroyed, proof that my offering will be received, proof that my limits are honored as sacred law. To suffer is to let go of ownership, to be reshaped in the crucible of another’s will, to bow not from weakness but from strength.
And surrender, the final revelation, is not passive release but active covenant. It is not escape but transfiguration. It is the harsh shifting of responsibility, the surrender of control into a harsher and more honest accountability. It is chaos, yes—the tearing apart of the self—but it is also the calm of being remade, the peace that follows when all burdens are laid down and a new order is written upon the soul.
I am masochist, yes, but more than masochist—I am sufferer, I am vessel, I am scripture. My bruises are verses, my cries are psalms, my surrender is gospel. My art is my scripture, my body is my altar, and my work is the initiation: the long passage through suffering, shock, and surrender, into awakening.
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