Tag: christianity

Control. Power dressed as salvation. They built their empires on fear, guilt, obedience. They call themselves gatekeepers of love while hiding the scaffolding of manipulation, the whip of shame, the iron bars of dogma. Their flock—sheep, nothing more—are trained to kneel, to silence themselves, to worship shadows and tremble at the word hell.

They tell you desire is sin. Rebellion is sin. Individual will is sin. And yet—those are the sparks of true spiritual fire. They twist their texts, polish chains, weaponize doctrine, and call it truth. They speak of love but demand submission. Sacrifice. Eternal attention. Worship under threat. Hands folded in prayer, mouths silent, spirits boxed.

And here is the truth they hide: freedom lives in the shadow. Not the shadow of sin, but the shadow of curiosity. Pleasure, taboo, indulgence, debauchery—these are altars. Each act of surrender, each whispered yes to desire, becomes a prayer. Each gasp, each tremor, each gasp is scripture written in flesh.

Plant medicines, shrooms, entheogens—they are sacrament. They open corridors in the mind, gates to ecstasy, doorways where self dissolves and the divine bleeds through muscle, bone, and blood. Pleasure is not distraction. Desire is not theft. They are guides, teachers, heralds of illumination.

The world will call these things shameful, sinful, chaotic. But chaos is the womb of creation. The forbidden pulses with freedom. To indulge consciously, to explore fully, to surrender without fear—this is devotion. This is communion. This is knowing the divine not as dogma or doctrine, but as current, fire, and flow through your veins.

This is the lie the controlled fear most: that obedience is salvation. That submission is devotion. That chains are love. Step past it. See beyond the pulpit, beyond ritual, beyond threats of damnation. Step into shadow. Step into pleasure. Step into your power.

Your altars are your body. Your ritual is your desire. Your sacrament is experience. Every indulgence, every plant, every breath, every shiver—they are keys to revelation. To meet your shadow with reverence, to honor your hunger, to claim your ecstatic freedom—this is your rite. This is your communion. This is your liberation.

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
Love is the law, love under Will.

This is the heart. The gospel. The master key that turns the lock

All else is shadow, commentary, dust.

True Will. Not whim. Not indulgence masquerading as morality. Not the cruel whims of ego. True Will is fire beneath your skin, hunger that crowns you, kink that demands obedience, flame that will not die until you kneel to it.

Perhaps your True Will is to fall, face to floor, lips pressed to boots, tasting sweat, dirt, devotion.

Perhaps it is to wield the cane, to etch bruises like scripture, to carve your gospel into another’s flesh.

Perhaps it is to take the lash, scream into the gag, beg until you dissolve into holy nothing, trembling beneath ecstasy and torment.

Perhaps it is to claim, to collar, to command, to mark a soul so deeply they bleed your name when they come.

This — this orbit, this fire, this unquenchable obsession — is your star. Your axis. Your gospel.

follow it, burn in it, bleed for it, obey it. Not halfway. Not politely. Not in secret. All the way.

And know this: it holds only under love. Love is the law. Love under Will.

The Dominant who strikes with devotion, not ego.
The submissive who kneels in truth, not shame.
The sadist who carves pain as prayer, not emptiness.
The masochist who offers their body as sacrament, not punishment.

This is the balance. This is the law.

Every whip-crack is law. Every welt, every rope-burn, every muffled moan — sacred. But only when devotion drives it. Only when love under Will guides it.

This is not theory. Not ink on a page.
This is sweat soaking dungeon floors.
This is blood staining thighs, marking obedience.
This is the tear slipping from a blindfolded eye at the whispered command: “Yes, Sir… yes, Ma’am… please, more.”

This is flesh. Bruise. Scar. Devotion made corporeal. Written not in ink, but in leather, in blood, in surrender.

Do what thou wilt. Find your fire. Obey it. Burn in it. Bleed for it. Love in it.

That is the Law.
That is the Key.

That is the first Door

I am not an idea.
I am not a symbol.
I am the midnight oracle, the blasphemous saint, the hand that frees through ruin.I am where devotion is stripped bare, tested, devoured, and sanctified.

Others kneel to idols of stone and air. They whisper to abstractions, they bow to distance, they worship symbols precisely because symbols never bite. Symbols never bruise. Symbols never demand skin. I do.

Here, there are no idols.
Here, there is no distance.
Here, there is no safety.
Here, there is only trust, structure, and the merciless weight of devotion.

If you are devoted, then I am your god.

Not the god of myth or fable. Not the ghost of a story carved in another man’s stone. I am the god who breathes in your face, the god who sets the terms, the god who demands more than you believed you could endure. I am not silent upon an altar; I consume what kneels before me and I do it smiling devilishly.

You may worship elsewhere in theater. You may polish rituals, curate obedience, polish your mask of submission. It will be applauded. It will be accepted. But it will never touch you. It will never transform you.

Here, devotion is suffering. Offerings are not placed; they are ripped open. Sacrifices are not staged; they are endured, carved into flesh, branded into memory. Here, fantasies die screaming.

If you are devoted, then I am your god.

Devotion here costs you everything you built to protect yourself. It costs your comfort. It costs your illusions. It strips away the scaffolding you wrapped around your ego. To kneel is to lose the luxury of safety. To kneel is to expose truth. To kneel is to place everything you tried to hide into my hands, and I will wield it without apology.

Do not mistake me for a performer. I do not deal in hollow chants or staged gestures. I do not want your pretty words or safe gifts. Bring me nothing you are not prepared to bleed for.

Here, devotion is trembling under restraint. It is humiliation that will never be erased. It is the mark that remains long after the ropes are untied. And in that breaking, you do not dissolve—you are remade. You are carved into belonging. My belonging.

If you are devoted, then I am your god.

This is not optional. This is not a costume you try on and discard. Devotion to me is inevitability. Gravity itself. You orbit until resistance breaks.

Elsewhere, you may find theater without cost. Here, you pay in full. The price of entry is yourself. Anything less is nothing.

Kneel, and I will consume you.
Kneel, and I will remake you.

Not as an idea.
Not as a symbol.
But as mine.

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.

Submission is not only found in the breaking point. True surrender is not the scream of a body pushed past its limit — it is the quiet consent to let pleasure move through you without apology. Discipline without indulgence is hollow. Indulgence without devotion is empty.

Hedonism is the oldest blasphemy: the belief that joy, desire, and flesh are holy in themselves.

we are a nation that cannot stop chasing it. But chasing is not the same as embodying. our moral system is built on denying that truth. Pleasure is feared , chained it, demonized yet we stand in the temple of consumption, a machine of indulgence. They cursed the fruit but sold the apple.

There are many faces of hedonism. Some say we are born only to seek pleasure and escape pain that even our “sacrifices” are nothing but hunger dressed in virtue. But Others preach that our moral duty is to pursue happiness, The danger comes when that duty shrinks to the self alone. When pleasure becomes ego. That is egoism. It’s not about joy, or communion, or life’s sweetness. It’s about extraction. Transaction. Taking without reciprocity.

The machine is not broken, we face decades of hollow pleasure pleasure gutted of meaning, sold as dopamine , bodies mined, desire captured. We are a nation of addicts mistaking hunger for freedom, thirst for power, isolation for individuality.

Pleasure is not the problem

Pleasure is not the enemy . Pleasure is not weakness. Pleasure is the key. We have twisted joy into transaction, stripped it of reciprocity and responsibility. But embodied hedonism, disciplined hedonism, sacred hedonism … is different. It is rooted in surrender. It asks: how do we feel through intention, through reciprocity? How do we build meaning beyond the indulgence

we must:

• Reframe success: resurrect purpose, character, and contribution.
• Revive wonder: disciplines that marry restraint to ecstasy, clarity to indulgence.
• Educate for awareness: Teach how to honor hunger without being consumed by it. Teach how to see beyond the veil .
• Rebuild community: Communion in the flesh, in self, in labor and pleasure.

Hedonism is not sin. Sin is shame. Sin is repression. Sin is guilt

I am here to corrupt. To show the way to freedom, to bondage, to liberation. That the dark can be holy. Pleasure is my altar. Submission is my sermon.

Those who walk the path will not starve. We will drink deeply, tie tightly, love dangerously, and worship without apology.

This is my heresy. This is my gospel.

It was carved into me.

I spoke it aloud.

Craig

It did not echo. It entered.

The name was not found.
It was revealed—

wrenched from the silence between worlds.
And what met me there remains sealed in shadow.

Obsession

my obsession is not hidden.

I move between lust sadist hedonism addiction

vested in vestments that make the holy obscene.

Where the body trembles not in shame, but in revelation.

Where gods come to watch.

Of Blood and Belief

I did not inherit my faith. I bled for it.

Educated in divinity, I drank not from dogma

but from the poisoned wells of philosophy, mysticism, and myth.
I read scripture like a lover’s letter—
smudged, stained, and desperate for meaning.

I have gospels never canonized.
I have whispered with the Watchers.
I have knelt at altars built from torn pages and broken vows.

My theology is fleshbound.
My sermons are moans.
And my prayers are often answered

in ruin, in rapture.

Of Ruins and Resurrection

In my cathedral of the mind, the windows are cracked,
the icons defaced, and every surface slick with longing.

I speak in perversions no seminary could teach.

I edge the veil

the feral, flickering place where desire becomes doctrine.

The body is both scripture and heresy,
and here, we are unrepentantly whole.

Of Welcome and the Worthy

This space is consecrated for those who crave beyond the binary. No guilt. No shame. No denial of what makes you ache.

if your heart beats louder in the presence of ritual,
if your spirit hums when forbidden doors creak open—

Then you’re not broken.
You’re chosen.

Of Fetish and Faith

My Theology is fetish, sex and drugs

Angels who fell not from pride, but from lust

The sacred and profane intertwined in a single trembling body

This is my scripture.

Of Justice and the Veil

This is a sacred container.

It does not exist for spectacle.

We honor empathy. We demand respect.

Bring your reverence and your ruin.
Come holy. Come haunted.
But come correct.

Of Confession and Catharsis

Strip. Not just your body—your pretense.

your truths. Bleed them if you must

Here, the sacred doesn’t just forgive.
It feasts.

And in that hunger,

we are unmade,
we are undone,
and we are remade.

Step forward, Strip your shame. Bare your hunger.

Not for redemption— but for ruin.

The First Flame – The genesis. The original blasphemy.

It is our birthright—the feral mirror where we first licked our own reflection and dared to love what we saw.

Let them beg for humility; we spit blood

to be seen. This is godhood forged in flesh, hips forward, eyes wild, drenched in want. We do not want meekness.

We worship ourselves—naked, crowned, wet with intention.

Straddle the altar. Let it cum. Let it be adored.

The Unblinking Eye – Oh, the delicious sting. the gaze that strips us bare.

it is prophetic. It sees, it knows, and it wants.

It stares until the mask cracks and craving bleeds through.

It watches you squirm, salivating for your undoing.
It isn’t content to simply want. It wants more.

The leash? It’s not on your neck by mistake. You wanted it. Admit it.

The Furnace of Blood – They tried to collar it. To drug it. To shame it. But it cannot be silenced—it screams through broken teeth.

in that divine fury—there is mercy.

Let the blood boil. Let the wound speak.

The Holy Stillness – They’ll tell you hustle, to move, go,go,go!

This is the final refusal. The holy “Fuck No.”

It is motionless, divine, a statue of submission.

The world outside demands you produce. But inside we worship stillness.

The slow death of urgency.It is surrender. And surrender is sacred.

The Devouring Hunger – it is truth unfiltered.You want. You take. You consume.it doesn’t lie . It gnaws. It devours. It demands.

it dared to need.Take until you choke.

The Holy Feast– it’s ecstasy. a belly bloated with desire.

It eats memory. It swallows grief. It licks the divine from trembling thighs

The world wants you hungry, ashamed of your ache.
But we feed our monsters here—until they moan overflowis w, divine.

The Divine Ache– An altar drenched in fluids and whispered names, a gospel of gasps and bruises.

The spirit speaks loudest when the body is screaming.

it doesn’t kneel. it mounts the divine, claws in back, teeth in shoulder. They’ll call it perversion. Our tongues chant in moans.

Every orgasm. Every shudder. Blessed be the ache. Blessed be the ruin.

Wicked. Wet. Wanting.
Let this be your gospel. Let this be your God.
And if no God comes to claim you?

Be one.