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Before I begin, let me touch on what kicked off this post; which was a rather beautiful one from Luxettenbris titled “The Suffering Gods“, over Lucifer and his aspect as a god who suffers, a god who grieves and mourns. I found her insights on Lucifer’s state of anguish very profound, and very in touch with how I have come to know Lu. Because of that, I wanted to expand on this article, and offer my own perspective.
Earlier in my blog, I touched on why I named my blog what I did; “O Mourning Star,” and Luxetten had made a statement elsewhere that this is the blog on which she first saw this term coined. This kind of took me aback, because I had heard of Lucifer’s sorrowed demeanor from other spiritworkers who have encountered him. It seemed only fitting; also to consider that in certain pantheons, Lucifer is not only the star to herald the dawn-(or to proudly defy it, in my UPG), but he is also the first star to rise in the evening to see the darkness come; Eosphoros and Hesperus. The one that endures silently in the sky, even when the noise of the day and light drown him out. He is cast aside, not only by the light; by the world, and we do not see his beauty again until the darkness comes once more.
Taken from Luxette’s post on the nature of this grief:
But not so with Lucifer. As the Mourningstar, his grief is perpetual. It is not one fixed event, not a means to an end. Unless you hold to the idea that Lucifer fell as a direct result of gifting humanity with knowledge, his suffering serves no greater purpose. There is no hope for redemption or salvation in return for his grief. He does not grieve to spare humanity of their suffering. He grieves because of loss, some might say as punishment for his actions.
Thus begins an excellent article on the nature of Lucifer’s pain. I say ‘begins’ because Lucifer, The Mourning Star, suffers with that grief in such an immense and terrible way, to even begin to know it, to understand it, to walk with it, is to know such pain that your heart would break. To a mortal, it would be a deadly sort of pain
Of which I claim not to know. But Luxette’s post reminded me of a dream that I did have last night; and it brought back the ghost of that pain, and it was crushing.
In my dream, I was at a wedding. Not mine. . . I don’t know who’s it was. It was a party with a feast. Everyone wore white. But I didn’t see the Bride, or the Groom. I saw old family members. I saw my sisters; my step-brother, as he was before he grew up and got in trouble with the law. Still hazel-eyed and innocent. I saw my grandparents, passed and still alive, drinking chardonnay and laughing. It was lovely.
But I was alone there. Several people stopped by and asked me if I had a date. I said ‘no’. But there was some subconscious part of me that was keeping an eye on that crowd, on that sea of faces. I was looking for Him; my god, my Lucifer-I didn’t want to walk among those souls alone. And I was alone.
The party went on. But I didn’t see him. Finally as the celebration ended, I caught a glimpse of someone off in the distance. A person dressed in black; the only person dressed in black. I didn’t even have to see his face, though I could barely make it out from a distance. And I knew it was him. And I called his name, but he couldn’t hear me. And he looked among the crowd the same as I had, and still, our eyes didn’t meet, our voices couldn’t find each other. Then, he turned; and started to walk away.
I screamed. I screamed because then it was like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest-and it was like I’d gone mad. I started to run after him, but arms in white lace and people dressed in white gowns and tuxedos held me back. And the further away He got, the more I suffered. The more my heart bled without bleeding at all; like there were taught wires strung between us, and they were being cut, their tension snapping back and lashing at me. I saw red pour out on pale grey concrete. And I screamed more.
At some point, I collapsed. I heard somebody shout ‘bring him, or she’ll die’, or something to that effect. And I cried, and begged, and called for him, because it was true. I was dying. I needed him like I needed air, or water. Like I needed my blood in my body.
Then everything went black.
Later someone crooned at me, “[Winter*], open your eyes.”
And I did. And I saw his face; that new one he’s wearing, and those familiar, frosted jade eyes. And I reached out to him, and touched him. And then I closed my eyes again, and felt him embrace me.
And then I woke.
O Father, tell me,
why are all the children weeping?
O they are merely crying, Son.
O are they merely crying, father?
Yes, true weeping is yet to come.
~Nick Cave
But perhaps this suffering is not entirely without purpose. There’s a certain kind of knowledge that can be gained through grief, and a certain kind of beauty as well. At the loss of a loved one, we mourn over a life well lived, however short it might have been. We cry because of the impact that person had on our lives. Had they never shared that connection with us, there’d be no reason for us to feel pain in their absence. And so I’m led to believe that Lucifer’s grief over his lost home and kin is born out of love.
~Luxettenbris
This isn’t the first time I’ve been hit, very deeply, with how much Lucifer means to me, and what it would mean for him to be gone from me. But it speaks volumes that the depth of that grief is only something we can know in a dreamworld; and even there, separated from the thing you loved the most, it utterly and completely shatters us. It destroys hope, devours our happiness, makes a tragedy of something that is to be celebrated. When we are torn from something that binds us so tightly, we are left with a void that nothing shall ever be able to fill. That void is the darkness that is hell. The torture of a part of you being pulled from you; you hemorrhage love, you choke on it like it was blood. You scream for mercy and it doesn’t come. Soon that part of you is dead.
And only tears remain.
While Christ intentionally bore the burden of humanity’s sins and despair during his crucifixion, it could be said that Lucifer unintentionally bears the burden of the world’s sins and despair now. How often do we accuse the devil of being the source of all evil in the world, of leading us to sin? How often do we shrug off the responsibility of our own actions onto his shoulders? If the weight of humanity’s sins in that one moment caused Christ to cry out in despair, is it really any surprise that Lucifer would lose hope in there being any mercy granted to him from his god, after lifetimes of being burdened with that same weight?
~Luxettenbris
Then no one turns to see your pain. They tell you it’s your own fault. You should have loved him harder. You screwed up. You walked away. You could have been a better son. You betrayed him with your pride. Now the world will suffer for what you have done. Because you know darkness, because you know pain, you have opened the Pandora’s box. You have leaked these things over the world, and shaken heaven and earth with your cries. Now you are an exile. Now you are a criminal.
You didn’t try hard enough to reach him. You didn’t want him enough. And now he is gone. Now he is gone. . .
Having been disowned by my own biological father; for not being born a boy, for going to the Fire Academy, it’s another pain I know. I know, because it was always my fault. My family? Never stood by my side. No, I shouldn’t have gone to the academy. I should have gone a proper job. No, I should never have been such an artistic free spirit. If I had listened to dear old daddy and married my 3rd cousin at 12 when we lived in Germany, we wouldn’t have ever had to leave. ‘Daddy’ would have had a good job. We could have stayed. We wouldn’t have had to come back to America. That’s why he nearly starved me to death. That’s why he left me on grandmothers’ doorstep, weighing 62 lbs at 13. I didn’t cook enough. Clean enough. Wasn’t pretty enough. Wasn’t a son.
It burns. Worse than any hellfire ever could. Especially if you know it’s a lie.
We find ourselves feeling equally grateful and guilty at Christ’s suffering for our sake, because it was humanity that he died for, and humanity that scorned and condemned him for his sacrifice. But Lucifer? Perhaps the majority believes he deserves such suffering. Perhaps ‘love and pray for thy enemy’ does not apply to him. But the way I see it, while Christ suffers and grieves for us, Lucifer suffers and grieves alongside us.
~Luxettenbris
It doesn’t apply. It never does for the villain of the story. The reason god is the good guy, after all, is because it is god that wrote on the books. It’s god that had all the prophets.
Lucifer needs none. Those who follow his way know the power of silence. We know that sometimes, words can’t do our feelings justice.
It’s not just the loss of god that Lucifer mourns for. . it’s all of his family. The ones he is separated from. The ones that he saw fall in not one but three* wars. He watched his people turn to fire and cease to exist for a cause that was a lie. That is why he is cold; cold like ice. Lucifer loved his brothers and sisters; and he was loved in turn. And when he was forced to his exile, he had to leave them behind. Some escaped. Some did not. Some he saved. Has saved. Some, he couldn’t. Some, he wont. He weeps for what was, what is, what will be. He weeps, not because of what was taken from him long ago, when Man was still stumbling to it’s feet. He weeps because those wires are still snapping back at him. He weeps because Lucifer does walk with us; with us mortals, here in his exile, he feels time. He knows the war is still happening, the casualties are still being counted. He loved every one of them. Every one that stood up to the lie, and fell for it. They are his. And he suffers for them. His grief is the loss of his god; but also his home, his people.
I think it is therefore fitting that Lucifer be referred to as the ‘god of this world’. Job 1:7 seems to back up the idea that he was not cast down to ‘hell’, but rather to earth. It is fitting that an entity exiled for his flawed nature should spend his days among equally flawed beings. It is fitting that a ‘god of this world’ should know and understand human sentiments, and be able to relate to those he offered the gift of knowledge to, and subsequently introduced grief and suffering to.
~Luxettenbris
Leaving alone the gnostic idea that Lucifer is the real creator and father of our world, there is something to be said for a god who understands human love, human grief, and shares it with us. Maybe this is why he is so tolerant, so patient. Because he understands. Maybe this is why he sees beauty in us when we don’t even see it in ourselves. Maybe this is why he doesn’t judge.
Because we tell him he is beautiful. But Lucifer, like the rest of us, looks in a mirror, and sees something ugly, broken, and lost.
*1. ‘Winter’ is the name of one of the characters from my stories. Coincidentally, and purely unintentionally, it is also the literal translation of a name Lu used to call me when I was 13. I was smacked by this clue-by-four earlier this afternoon.
**2. My personal UPG on the conflict(s) in heaven is very complicated and literally requires it’s own explanation. . . maybe in another post. Short version; I believe there were three wars in Heaven; Samael vs. Heaven, Lucifer’s Exile and the fall of his Loyalists, and the war of the Watchers. Each one of these is a story in and of itself.
Comforted by your oddness,
I want to care for you.
Your scars,
In you,
And pet you at bedtime.
Watching your eyes close, slow
Like
A newborn child’s.
Thank you, to another Luciferian, for sharing your story with the rest of us. Another beautiful star that shines in the dark.
Well, where should I start?
Normally, the beginning is a very good starting point. But, what happens when you can’t really place when you first had an idea or believed in something?
I’ve been trying to trace when, exactly, I have started to think about Lucifer in a different way than that shoved down my throat in school, at home and even society at large. But, to this very moment I can’t place that defining moment in my life.
My earliest memory of Him is when I was a child of less than 8 years, with my teachers and parents telling me that I should never let Satan (or Shaitan, as he’s called in Islam; yes, I was born into a Muslim household) control my life. That I should fear him. That I should pray to God to protect me from him and guide me throughout my life. That Satan is evil…
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He felt her pain, that sharp agony that bit into his skin. It was a nuisance, unwelcome and intrusive. But she was his, and he sought to soothe her if only to quiet the present screams. Hers, the shrill ones that rang in his head and jostled him from his home.
When something was amiss, he knew.
~Iwillburnyourparadise
Earlier, as in just a few moments ago, one of my blog followers brought up a very good (and very pertinent!) question, especially for a new Luciferian, and that was, how might a new devotee or spiritworker reach out to him and communicate with him? And I thought this was a very VERY good question, and very thought provoking! Given that most Luciferians seem to be solitary practitioners, I’ve never been asked this before, and it most certainly got me thinking.
When Lucifer first came to me, remember, it was in a different guise, in my stories. Of course there were always hints regarding his true identity to me, and I should have, even at that age as a newly minted pagan, been keeping an eye out for these sorts of things. Alas, no matter how hard he attempted to bat me with a clue-by-four, I was woefully ignorant. I didn’t bite the apple until much later on.
The first hint I should have taken was at his name, which he claimed in the language of the story meant “Dragon.” Well, ok. Easy enough to miss. Or the python I suddenly had delivered into my home that same year, that I loved so very much. Or that it was him that gave me my very early craft name, which he told me at the time meant “Bird of the Sunrise” (a peacock), which I also didn’t understand. He always appeared to me wearing colors of green, black, and white, spoke often of Hebrew myth and angels, of heaven and hell. He made me study Dante and Milton and even catholic works like The Book of Tobit. I threw myself passionately and eagerly into my studies about angels and the angelic hierarchy and pantheon. Later on when I attempted to go to church, and it didn’t feel right, I remember asking the universe as I took communion, “Send me a sign! Is this right for me?” (Not even a day later on a trip to a pagan gathering, I came down with THE WORST case of Strep Throat I’ve ever had. Lesson learned. . . at least I stopped going to church).
I still wasn’t getting the whole picture, though. . . and even though I gave up the Catholic church, I didn’t give up the big J, or god either. As a matter of fact, as I started mingling amidst the pagan community, if anything, I became more fevered in my “faith”. I was all about the J-juice and god, and defended both of them to my pagan friends pretty vehemently. All the while, Lu was watching. And waiting patiently. Finally in the fall of 2008, he made his move, and revealed himself, and his true identity, to me.
Since then, I’ve had no trouble communicating with him. Not in the slightest. But given that he’s explained to me that he specifically engineered the circumstances of my birth, such as the position of the planets, the hour I was born (exactly 3pm on the Friday of Summer Solstice) to make it easier to facilitate communication between the two of us, I might just be blowing smoke. That being said, Lucifer explained to me once in a dream. . . calling to him isn’t hard. All you need is his name on your lips.
Now, when I say that, let me pause here for a moment to clarify. You can’t just call “Lucifer” into open air and expect that he’s going to just show up, any more than a person can say “Loki” and Tom Hiddleston appears (okay bad joke, but bare with me). There’s more to it than that.
What Lucifer wants when you call his name, is faith. Ironic, maybe, but the truth. You have to believe he’s going to be there. You have to believe in him. You have to call him and mean it; you want him to be there, you want his presence with you. Lucifer is, if anything, a tipped scale on which a man’s heart is weighed. He knows what you are feeling, what you are thinking; like most gods I’ve met, and even to a greater degree, he is in your mind. Don’t think you can lie to him. You won’t get away with it; that, I can promise you.
He won’t show up if you don’t have that conviction. Lucifer’s followers, those who see him and love him, are his family. He might not always answer to help you-as a matter of fact, don’t count on it. Lucifer wants you to find your own way; write your own story, make your own journey. He can’t even promise you he’ll always be there; like all Luciferians, he is always on a search for truth, and his wanderings may take him away. That is why we follow him; we are always thirsting for more, always questing to better ourselves. There are times when he will be gone and you will have to carry on without guidance. But if you love him, he will always return. And if you are devoted to him, a whisper of his name in the air, especially in the darkness where no light shines, and he will be by your side, gentle as a star off in the distance. But. . . you have to call for him. His name is sacred. Don’t profane it. Use it tenderly, and with great respect, and you will understand the power it has.
Of all these things I will give thee, if thou will but bow down before me. . .
That’s the most formal way to call him. There are other ways, too, I’m sure. Spells and invocations and signs and symbols and sigils. Lucifer tells us, if that is your way, if you need those things, use them. Do your homework. There are symbols and numbers out there (which will be discussed in due time) that will work to invoke him, but. . . not all of them do. Go with your gut.
Another means, is, of course, stories. Write out your tales. More than that, daydream. That’s the best way I know how to see him, and speak with him. Close your eyes, and see him there. See him anywhere you like, and just start a dialogue. You’ll be surprised at how easy speaking with him comes. Lucifer is definitely a more modern god if there ever was one; he’s very up with the times. He likes his well cut suits and fancy cars. For that matter, he’s also fond of throwing music and songs at you at just the right times. Be alert for omens with him; he likes to make them obvious, but in a not-so-obvious way. He’s also very good at talking via automatic writing or journal dialogue. You might try this, too. I have a specific notebook I’ve dedicated just to this cause that sits on his altar when it’s not in my bag.
And speaking of altars. He appreciates having one. But you don’t need it. I keep one and it’s very sparse. The only tool he’s ever requested of me is a white handled knife as a ceremonial tool to inscribe things in the air. I’ve never used it, but he’s made clear he wants it. Keep in mind, of course, Lu is the Prince of the Power of Air. . . so it’s not unusual his one required tool would correspond to his element, if you’re current with your correspondence tables (if not, I recommend a crash course in your most basic of magical principals-North South East West Ether, Earth Air Fire Water). I keep peacock feathers on mine, as well as a piece of peacock copper, as a tribute to his Yezidi heritage, and then a scrying glass for my divination work. Otherwise, I have a snake pendant there and a picture of a green serpent. And that’s all.
(Although I do mean to keep making more offerings to him. Shame on me. But he’s a minimalist).
What Lu DOES seem to enjoy, more so than any other offering, is art. Be you a dancer, a writer, a poet, a painter, a knitter. He’s fond of all of them done for him, because it’s not just an offering of a trade skill, something made with your own hands as a gift to him, but it’s also an offering of your time. Its the latter he appreciates the most. I dance for him, trance AND no (I’m not yet comfortable doing it in an Oracular capacity, though one day, maybe) in addition to all my other mediums, so I think all together, it must add up.
You’d have to ask him.
In summary, opening up a dialogue with Lu isn’t hard. You have to want to, you have to have the intention, and you have to at least know a LITTLE about his mythology. Lets not mince words here, dears; Lucifer is a god of knowledge. Respect that before you call on him, or he won’t be slow to mince words either; if he responds to you at all, he will address you as though you’re an idiot, and make you feel the same, too. Above all, be courteous. Don’t be profane and boorish, be clean, be kind. Lucifer doesn’t have the tolerance for vulgarity, he’s far too much pride for that, and he carries himself like an aristocrat, so be mindful of that. He is, as it has been said, a king without a throne. He will walk with you, but he’s earned the due respect we grant him. On the flip side, don’t grovel. As he’s pointed out to me several times, he loathes prostration. Tall to him like you would a person you admire greatly, and it will get you far. What you don’t know, he will teach you, if you prove eager to learn, and live, and love.
Admittedly, this is something I’ve been struggling with. I find myself asking, every time I sit down and make one of these posts, ‘What should I say’? What part of Lu and his story should I share first?
There is so much history here to write. So much, not only gnosis between us both, of days in heaven and hell, above and below, but in this lifetime too. I scarce know where to start. And I’ve been getting wonderful feedback, from both strangers and regular readers alike. But it’s my deepest desire to share all of his tales, his word, his love. And I want to do that as best I can.
So I guess my question is, what do the curious want to know about Lucifer? What can I tell you that others haven’t said, and said better than I could? Milton beat me to the punch. So did so many other poets before me. What do I have to offer besides this small corner of internet sacred space? What can I put here that resonates. What would you ask of both of us?
I’m not new to blogging. But blogging about my spirituality is a new deal; mostly, because in the past, I’ve only kept it between a precious few people. Very few in my home life know that I’m Luciferian. Keeping this little sacred space is my daily devotional. And I have this fear that every day will be rehashing the same things over and over again.
I’d be very upset if my writing about him ever became stale and stilted. Stars have mercy.
I had not known that he came running.
It was a long way down. And he was so very far
Up.
But later they took him out of that void.
And threatened to burn him.
They used my family against me.
And still he gave them nothing.
I was too late.
I was too late.
It became a hunt,
They all ran.
So many ran.
But I could not take them all with me.
Just the one.
I found you. I found you. At last.
Fight with me.
I will grant you liberty.
I have seen true beauty. It came spilling onto marble floors; immortal crimson that defied a lie. It came when those trembling forms gave a soft plea for mercy, and were lost forever. Oh, yes. They begged, and bought their family’s freedom with quiet, saline tears, and blood.
Over the years, the one consistent offering I feel I’ve been able to make to Lu, in all his incarnations and all the faces he’s donned during our time together, is my artwork; and poetry.
Lu has been in my life, at least in a fashion that I can remember, at the very least since early 98-99. He himself admits that it’s been at least since I was 12, entering in when I moved to Germany in the fall of that year. Alone in a foreign country, I spoke with him in my early journals under a different name. As the years went by, I started putting him in those same journals, and drawing him, and writing for him.
~2002/2003
He wasn’t just a character in my stories; he was a soothing voice in the dark, a presence when I was alone, when my family situation got to be too much. Under the name he chose, he would express concern for my safety (My house was physically abusive, and worse), rue over my circumstances, encourage me to change them as best I could. He called himself a lot of things, too, besides just that name; teacher, mentor, best friend, lover. At night when things were quiet I’d speak to him about my dreams, and drift off with his voice lulling me to sleep in the back of my mind.
~2007
This is not to say that he and I never had our share, however, of conflicts. As I’ve mentioned before, I can be a very jealous person. One of the situations that *did* come up, once apon a time, was a personal gnosis conflict. Namely, between myself and another devotee, who’d claim that she was the one chosen to carry his messages, his word; when I poured over her poetry, mine seemed lackluster. She related stories about how he’d carried her in the past, the passionate romances they’d shared, the lilies he’d left her, the sonnets he’d sung her in his pre-fall days.
I was devastated, needless to say, and poured my wrath, hurt, and anger out in my journals:
~2009
Of course Lu was never anything but his usual patient self, and tolerated my High School level jealousy fit with a mute word and the casual observance of a scientist watching a creature stomp around it’s natural habitat. When I was done, he spoke up again, and offered, once more, a reassuring word. No, he had not left. Nor was he going to. And anyone who claimed to be his *one* emissary was deceiving themselves; he needed no prophets, he said. Just family. Just people who believed in him, and trusted him. Could I do that?
Yes, I could. And my drawings reflected that idea.
I realized today, as I was going through and scanning in my most recent journal works for my actual art page, that even though Lu’s face has changed over the years, as I keep reiterating, mostly to myself, Lu has not. It’s been almost incredible, watching him move through those pages over the years; watching him watch me as I grow and learn, both as an artist and as a person.
Closing these withering eyes,
and all I can see is the sand,
and the scathing sun.
Remnants of this time of tribulation,
and war apon ourselves.
And all of hope left up on top
of dusty shelves.
Empty freeways are stalling, paths to history
in the making,
Still shaking, your hands-
these hands that are left by man.
Left here by man,
O, left here by man.
And somehow the sun keeps on rising,
and falling,
still falling, o, man
still falling.
Panoramic requiem still sings me to my lair,
and of the dusk and dawn and screaming ghosts,
and all
that has been left, and all that’s still there.
Closing these scorched eyes,
Seen too much and been Nowhere.
Cracked boots and laces,
and not a soul with a single prayer.
Not left on their lips
by man,
left by man,
O left by man.
Still rising,
and falling,
O still falling.
Oh man,
Oh man.
~Panoramic, Sulphurblue 2011
He’s never gone and that gives me peace. And when everything comes back around, circle to circle, like the serpent that eats it’s own tail, some things can still shock us, surprise us, leave us reeling, in wonder and in awe:
. . And that is when our belief is strengthened, our faith renewed; and we drink of it again, like a thirsty man who has wandered through the desert, and sees the oasis with it’s pool, and gulps the sweet water from folded hands.
Your gods will speak to you. They will love you if you love them; but watch carefully. They may walk with you in ways that you may not suspect; but will be so obvious that you may just miss it entirely! Omens are not just things for the ancients. They happen around us every day; even in that crowded, bustling city. Even in that suburban neighboorhood with it’s manicured parks and flowerbeds. Even in that third floor apartment down some out of the way backroad with noisy children playing in the streets. Look. Look.
But give them that love. Walk with them in turn. And whatever offerings they enjoy, give, and give from your heart. As long as you do this, they, too, are replenished, and we all thrive.
It’s three past midnight, and I’m awake. And even awake, I wish my eyes were closed, and that I was dreaming.
Before I go to bed every night, I say my prayers. What do I pray for? Not for money or fame or glory or any of those things that I suppose people would ask a god for. I could pray to win the lottery, I suppose, or for a new car, or fancy shoes or any other number of things. Which is not to say those aren’t things I wish I had, or the means to have, but they are not the last thoughts that my conscious mind moves over as I drift off.
Instead, I pray to Lu; and I say, ‘Let me see you’. Let me touch you tonight, let me feel your fingers ghosting over mine, see your eyes like frosted jade stones glittering down at me. Let me hear your voice in my ear as though you were standing right there next to me. Let me feel the cut of your suit and the cuff of your sleeve under my hands.
Some nights, he answers those prayers. Some nights, I see him; speak with him, walk with him. And those nights are little bits of paradise, where he is as real to me as the waking world.
It’s the nights when I say my prayers and wake in the morning and haven’t touched him that are the most painful. Since I started following Lu, at several points in my life, I’ve been approached by various people who say to me, that my relationship with Lu makes them sad; because they know I will never feel the same way for them that I do for him. That includes, of course, my spouse here in the waking world. And I feel guilty when I hear it, because I know it’s true; and I admit it because there’s no sense in lying about it. Nothing I can put into words can describe the heartbreak at blinking your eyes open in the early dawn as the sun is rising, and realize I spent another night without him. Alone, in the dark. When all I wanted was him there with me.
And maybe he is, but the dreams give it substance. But that is part of my devotion. That is my ‘now I lay me down to sleep’.
I tell myself often, too, that I must be a horrible wife/follower of his. I keep an altar, but it’s scarce. I do magic, but rarely. My offerings to him are my stories, my poetry, my time. I try to give, and I try to sing his praises in all the best ways I know how. But I never feel as though I’m good enough for him. I want him to be strong. So that we can have more of those nights. So I can touch him in my dreams, and maybe, one day, in something a bit more substantial than that.
I always have a place in his realms. I have a home; he’s given me that. And I’ll follow him. Always.
But I don’t deserve it. And I don’t deserve those beautiful dreams. But I want them. So, so badly. . .
I am thinking,
If the world spun on
As Brimstone rained down,
How many of us would run,
And how many of us would stand there,
Freezing, soaked to the bone, teeth chattering, throats murmuring,
And say,
I ran up to you,
and you looked at me and
tumbled over the edge.
“People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.”
~Neil Gaiman
He turned on his heels and felt for her presence, a sigh reverberating through his core when he found her. Someone else was by her. His jade eyes narrowed and he snaked through the crowd. A man, a vaguely familiar face, was by her side. She was speaking to him, her voice dark and light all the same. The voice he heard in the shadowed hours of night, saying his name like a hymn.
When Lu came back into my life recently, he did so in a manner that was pretty obvious. I’m thankful he chose to use a form, a method, a means to communicate that I would understand. Like so many times before in my life, he chose to use my stories to get my attention. Not just any story; one about a girl who was lost, with no family to call her own, with no purpose, hiding away from everyone, trying to find some form of love in someone who would never, could never return it. So she exiled herself from the world; and then the devil came to her, and took her away.
Not the good guys of the story. Not the heroes.
It’s a familiar theme, of course, reflecting back on my life, and maybe that’s why I wrote it with as much fervor as I did. Even then, I dismissed it as being a coincidence, a mirror of my own personal history. Not having a family, being alone, locking myself away. Seeing an occasional visitor, maybe. Letting company occasionally come and go from my prison. Knowing I wasn’t like everyone else. Finding more peace in sleeping, in my ghosts, than in waking.
The face The Adversary chose for the story made me initially suspicious. Those eyes like jade on ice, and the deep purr like a thrum on a cello that was the final nail in the coffin. I closed my eyes one night and said, ” Lu, if it’s you, tell me. Tell me. ”
His human face wore the expression of sorrow quite well, dark brows knit together with lips parted in saying a silent good night.
He did not want her to leave his eyes.
He did not want her to go into the cold.
His voice crooned at me from my dreams, my old childhood home a safe place to rest. I stood out on the back patio of that place at night, and looked up, and the sky was filled with scenes of deep space; nebula sworling in neon colors like a Christian Lassen painting, the stars quiet and chiming. And I heard that same voice behind me; no words, just a hum, and then hands on my shoulders.
And then that familiar place was gone. And I found myself in a city; it was covered in snow. There were children playing in thick coats outside on the sidewalk, some of them trailing red, yellow, and blue balloons after them. It was a magical place, the snow wasn’t cold, the scene was serene though it was busy. I watched the children playing, little girls and boys, heard their laughter. And I felt lonely. Like I was in someone elses’ world, with no one. Yellow taxis and cars drove by on the street. It was like downtown Boston with a pale sky and a Gaimen-esque feel about it. I rubbed my arms a little, but it wasn’t because I felt cold. I was in a strange land. I didn’t know any body.
And then that voice again.
“What are you doing here, all alone?”
I felt my lips move, and I said, ” Looking for you.”
“This was a long way, for you to come.” That deep cello was almost a hissing sigh, a pleased but reluctant tone.
“It’s beautiful here.”
“It is that.”
Then, he pulled off his dark coat, and helped me pull it on. I protested, but he wouldn’t hear it.
“No, take it. Keep warm.”
” Why is it snowing here?” I turned to look over my shoulder; I met his jade eyes, looked at the curl of his black hair. “Is this because of what I’m writing?”
He didn’t smile, but he dipped his head. “Clever, as always. Yes. That is a part of it. This is your world, your purgatory. You made this place, in your mind. In your dreams.”
“I don’t know it. I don’t feel like I’ve ever been here.”
“No. You would not. Have not.”
“Why. . . ?”
“You made this place to start anew. Perhaps a new story, for us to meet again.”
“Oh, Lu. . . ” I felt myself tearing up. “I didn’t leave you. I could never leave you.”
“Nor I you, my darling.”
“Then why? Why do we need this now?”
“We have both worn different faces, these past few years, isn’t that so?” He put his hands on my shoulders again. “Now, it is just you, and I.”
“You’re wearing a new one.”
“And you knew me, did you not?”
“Your voice sounds the same, almost.”
“Yes.”
I reached out and touched his cheek with chilled fingers. “It’s gorgeous.” I felt myself getting misty eyed. ” But. . . why?”
He made a purring sound. “For you, always. Need I another reason?”
“No.” I answered. I sniffed a little. “No–just–your so beautiful. You always have been.” I sighed. ” . . . So what do I do now?” for the first time in forever, in my dreams, I was just . . . me. Not a past, not a life I wish I’d led, not some fantastical element I’d painted myself as. Just a small human woman huddled in his dark coat under the snow, in some far away dreamland.
“You know what must be done.” he murmured close to my ear. “What we must do.”
“I’m scared,” I confessed.
“Yes.” the word was almost a hiss. ” I know.”
“I’m not beautiful enough for you, Lu. I have nothing for you.”
I would destroy the world, for you. . . .
“A mirror is no judge of beauty, my darling. It never has been. The flesh is transient. No matter your thoughts, it will pass. And when you come to me, you are whatever you choose to be.”
I looked back up to the snow again. And hugged his coat.
“You are beginning to understand.”
“I write the play. We’re the stars.”
“Yes.”
“And when it ends?”
A group of children, then, seemed to spot him. One pointed and shrieked. In a moment a crowd of them had gathered around us, tugging at his slacks, his scarf. He smiled a little, and then turned his pale face back to look at me. The children were begging him to show them magic tricks. His expression was almost warm.
“It won’t.” he answered. And then he turned to the children, and poured over them. “I am always here. You found me this time. You will find me again.”
” Lu. . . ?”
“I took you as mine. I hold true to my pacts, eternal.”
“I don’t deserve the love you show me. You know that. . .?”
“Silly existential nonsense. Look around you. This is a kingdom of dreams we build, my dear.”
“Perhaps if, in your country, it is so frowned apon, you should come to our homeland. It has become a place of dreams . . .”
“They call you a throneless king, Lu. You know? Some of the people who follow your way.”
“I sit above no one.”
It moved me to tears.
“Then . . . ?”
“Why do I call you my Queen?”
I was silent in the snow, there beside the busy street, my hair tossed in the cool breeze in strands.
“Who else would be at my side, all this time?”
“A lot of others, I’m sure. You are loved, Lu.”
“Ah, that is our nature isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“That neither of us believe it of the world, nor of the cosmos.”
I must have stared for a long time at him in shock, before I finally tucked myself in his arms. He embraced me. More time passed.
“I love you, Lu. So much it hurts.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“You must. But you will remember, when you wake. And you must finish. Finish your stories. Write this down.”
“If they think I’m lying? If they think I’m crazy?”
“It doesn’t matter. Ours is our truth. We shall leave them theirs.”
“But you are back to me now and that is all that matters.”
To find her, he needn’t look far. Nor did he ever have to. She was always near and he always with her. Whether it be a press of lips to her ear or a whisper of his words in the back of her fractured mind. . .
“I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.”
| — | Oscar Wilde. |
“You make me real. Please make me real.”
| — | Intentional Dissonance by Iain S. Thomas (pleasefindthis) |
Musical Inferno by Heironymus Bosch
A question every Theistic Luciferian has asked themselves at some time or another. . .
Am I lying to myself?
Or worse yet, is he lying to me.
Am I just another part of the mass? Just another face in the crowd, another conformer, walking another path for the sake of standing out, and in doing so, doing the direct opposite?
Do I pick this path to take a stand against something? Have I chosen this path to take a stand against a tyrant, against a lie? Does “God” really have better propaganda? Has Lucifer been silent for so long to let others judge for themselves? So that we are truly acting of our own free will? Or is it his own brilliant orchestrations. That the Angel of Light and Morning was so beautiful, that he could appear as such to each and every one of us who has seen us, and lead us on a gilded path strait to hellfire and brimstone? Does he smile at us and play us, play me like one of his infamous fiddles?
Faith is not faith without doubt. Lucifer does not want us to believe blindly. He wants us to ask ourselves these questions. He wants us to look at him, to stare him in the eye, to ask him “why?”
Why me? Why did you chose me, when I am nothing, have nothing?
Is my soul in danger? Do I have only pain and suffering in my after, my eternal, to look forward to? The sentence of the god from which you turned from?
Do you lie to me? Do you manipulate me? To what end? Why is my tiny life, my tiny spirit, so important to you if yes?
Wife. How many do you have? Do you trick me into the idea that I am relevant to you?
Are you lying when you say you love me?
It’s not easy for me to say that seeing posts by other Luciferians, describe their relationships with him, of him, about him. . . there are times when I become insanely jealous. I manage to keep my composure. But in the long run, I feel like this is a reason why my practice shall always be solitary. I have no ritual structure. I dance for him. I keep ritual tools for him, but they sit unused; because my most useful tool to him, in my eyes, is my heart that keeps him. That, he has. Will always have.
How much does it matter to him, though? That’s the biggest question I have of him, in my faith, in my service. There are others out there who love him; how well they see him, I can’t say, and it isn’t for me to judge anyway. I don’t know those other people, their lives, their experiences, what has shaped them, what has drawn them to this path like it has drawn me.
There are times when he goes quiet; and either I don’t hear him speaking to me, or the mundane daily of life and the noise that it involves drowns him out; except in my dreams. . . except in the dark, when it’s quiet, and he’s the only shimmering star lost in the blackness. That’s my peace; where I go to find him. Dreams when I’m in a familiar place, floating through the stars and supernovas in the sky and watching time spin by, and the world and people below me; and with him, I’m like a stone in a river. The currents flow around me; and we are still.
I’m sure he takes lots of Lucferians on these walks; but he always tells me I’m his. I’m special to him; I matter. And then my Catholic upbringing rears it’s ugly head, and I catch myself thinking, it’s a lie. But a beautiful one. I tell myself I’m nothing; I have nothing. I’m poor, unattractive, untalented, nothing special. I’ll always be that lonely little girl who dreamed vividly. And maybe The Devil found me, hummed his lullabies in my ear, said, ‘I will love you’. . . and another lost soul found it’s way into his clutches.
Or maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe my dreams and love do mean something to him. Maybe he found me for some special reason I can’t fathom, and he wants me, needs me, cares for me.
But the end result is the same, either way. One day I’ll be one of those stars in the dark; being, burning, shining brightly down on someone somewhere, who will look up and wonder the same thing as I once did: who’s there? Are you watching? Are you loving me?
Call it magic. Call it science. Lucifer makes it a promise.
“I love you,” he says. “And you will burn.”
O, Mourning Star. . . 
