Pandora's Box
High Primistress
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2024
- Messages
- 27
- Location
- United States
I was thinking, the other day, about my many different, often contradictory, ideologies around death. I thought I would write out some of my thoughts, not to settle any of the contradictions or come to any conclusion, but simply to allow the different beliefs to exist in tandem.
For whatever reason, many humans crave a loss of control. Some satisfy this craving with violence, others with worship, and others still, with sex. Though some, a special few, such as yourself, satisfy this craving with Death.
Dying is the ultimate loss of control.
BDSM is a subculture entirely centered around losing control, both as a submissive, by letting a Dominant take control, and as a Dominant, by letting go of constraints placed on their sadistic sexuality by society. Eroticism of violence, sadism, eroticism of worship, submission.
With this in mind, is dying not the ultimate form of submission, and killing the ultimate form of Domination?
There is also the inherent sexual nature of many forms of murder. The phallus of a blade against the weeping slit of sliced skin; the way a body thrashes, hips bucking, legs splaying, as fingers dig into the flesh around the throat; the way layers of flesh open up and swallow a bullet as it passes through skin, enveloping it in warmth and wetness.
Even when one dies in a way that is not at the hands of another person, Death itself dominates. Once it burrows its claws into you, there’s very little you can do but accept it and submit. Mouth agape like a fish, bound by your own immobility, every aspect of your self control and autonomy placed into the hands of force no one truly understands. Doctors and EMT’s can try to stave it off, but they will never keep it away forever.
In the end, Death will make everyone its bitch.
You will stink, and you will probably be covered in your own feces and urine. Someone will have to take a cloth and clean you, like a mother would a babe, except you are not a babe, and they are but a stranger. Perhaps they will go home afterwards and speak to their loved ones about you, not as a human, but as an object, a cadaver.
There are a number of ways the humiliation can be amplified by the way you die, as well. Hit by a car and smeared across the road like roadkill, everyone around having to avert their eyes from the monstrosity that is you; raped and murdered and left in a ditch, found by a group of young boys as you lie there, naked, legs spread wide open; succumbing to an illness that has stripped you of your beauty, of your youth, of your autonomy. You might be photographed, you might be shared on the internet, for freaks and degenerates to gawk at. You may be immortalized on the news, in the paper, in articles, for the embarrassing way you found yourself deceased.
Years down the line, you may only be remembered by the way you died, your final and apex indignity.
None of us know for certain what awaits us after Death.
What will happen to all of the memories you’ve collected? What will all of this strife and struggle and suffering on Earth amount to in the end? Will “you” still exist in some form? Will there be fire and brimstone awaiting you? Pure eternal nothingness? Or will you simply cease to exist?
What about the people you leave on Earth? Are you leaving behind a financial burden for those in your life? How long will it take those closest to you to recover from the grief? For how long will you be remembered at all?
We also never know when it will come for us.
Tomorrow you may die in a car crash. A week from now you may sneeze and trigger a brain aneurysm. In a month you may be hit by a stray bullet. A year from now your lover may take your life. In 10 years you may fall down the stairs. In 20 years you may lose your battle with cancer. Tonight you may fall asleep and never wake up.
Uncertainty is terrifying.
There is such beauty in cleaving the soul from the body. The ultimate stillness, the final peace. There is no beauty standard in death. In the serenity, all become like porcelain dolls, all become gorgeous. The beauty is no longer in your presentation, how you perform, how you entertain; the beauty is in the surrender.
There is also beauty in the body’s utility. Think of all of the plants that will feed on the nutrients of your body. Think of the insects and animals that will feed on those plants. Your body will perpetuate the cycle of life and death that has existed long before you and will exist long after you. Even if you’ve done nothing useful in your life, which is very likely, at least your body will feed the Earth that birthed you.
This is why so much of the current culture, in the West, around Death is so horrid. They pump you full of chemicals and shove you into a box that never decomposes, or they reduce you to ashes and pour you into a jar. They do not understand the beauty of death, they only fear it. If given the opportunity to be dumped in the forest or a body of water, you should embrace it, as it is better than the alternative.
There is even beauty in the embarrassment.
Whether you like it or not, your body will have no regard for the rules you’ve set for it, the rules society hammered into you. Your body will not be ashamed as it is stripped naked, it will not try to seduce or to hide. This is the most authentic way to exist, with no regards to the sensitivities of others, no sense of right or wrong.
The beauty is in that authenticity.
Death is erotic.
For whatever reason, many humans crave a loss of control. Some satisfy this craving with violence, others with worship, and others still, with sex. Though some, a special few, such as yourself, satisfy this craving with Death.
Dying is the ultimate loss of control.
BDSM is a subculture entirely centered around losing control, both as a submissive, by letting a Dominant take control, and as a Dominant, by letting go of constraints placed on their sadistic sexuality by society. Eroticism of violence, sadism, eroticism of worship, submission.
With this in mind, is dying not the ultimate form of submission, and killing the ultimate form of Domination?
There is also the inherent sexual nature of many forms of murder. The phallus of a blade against the weeping slit of sliced skin; the way a body thrashes, hips bucking, legs splaying, as fingers dig into the flesh around the throat; the way layers of flesh open up and swallow a bullet as it passes through skin, enveloping it in warmth and wetness.
Even when one dies in a way that is not at the hands of another person, Death itself dominates. Once it burrows its claws into you, there’s very little you can do but accept it and submit. Mouth agape like a fish, bound by your own immobility, every aspect of your self control and autonomy placed into the hands of force no one truly understands. Doctors and EMT’s can try to stave it off, but they will never keep it away forever.
In the end, Death will make everyone its bitch.
Death is humiliating.
You will stink, and you will probably be covered in your own feces and urine. Someone will have to take a cloth and clean you, like a mother would a babe, except you are not a babe, and they are but a stranger. Perhaps they will go home afterwards and speak to their loved ones about you, not as a human, but as an object, a cadaver.
There are a number of ways the humiliation can be amplified by the way you die, as well. Hit by a car and smeared across the road like roadkill, everyone around having to avert their eyes from the monstrosity that is you; raped and murdered and left in a ditch, found by a group of young boys as you lie there, naked, legs spread wide open; succumbing to an illness that has stripped you of your beauty, of your youth, of your autonomy. You might be photographed, you might be shared on the internet, for freaks and degenerates to gawk at. You may be immortalized on the news, in the paper, in articles, for the embarrassing way you found yourself deceased.
Years down the line, you may only be remembered by the way you died, your final and apex indignity.
Death is terrifying.
None of us know for certain what awaits us after Death.
What will happen to all of the memories you’ve collected? What will all of this strife and struggle and suffering on Earth amount to in the end? Will “you” still exist in some form? Will there be fire and brimstone awaiting you? Pure eternal nothingness? Or will you simply cease to exist?
What about the people you leave on Earth? Are you leaving behind a financial burden for those in your life? How long will it take those closest to you to recover from the grief? For how long will you be remembered at all?
We also never know when it will come for us.
Tomorrow you may die in a car crash. A week from now you may sneeze and trigger a brain aneurysm. In a month you may be hit by a stray bullet. A year from now your lover may take your life. In 10 years you may fall down the stairs. In 20 years you may lose your battle with cancer. Tonight you may fall asleep and never wake up.
Uncertainty is terrifying.
Death is lovely.
There is such beauty in cleaving the soul from the body. The ultimate stillness, the final peace. There is no beauty standard in death. In the serenity, all become like porcelain dolls, all become gorgeous. The beauty is no longer in your presentation, how you perform, how you entertain; the beauty is in the surrender.
There is also beauty in the body’s utility. Think of all of the plants that will feed on the nutrients of your body. Think of the insects and animals that will feed on those plants. Your body will perpetuate the cycle of life and death that has existed long before you and will exist long after you. Even if you’ve done nothing useful in your life, which is very likely, at least your body will feed the Earth that birthed you.
This is why so much of the current culture, in the West, around Death is so horrid. They pump you full of chemicals and shove you into a box that never decomposes, or they reduce you to ashes and pour you into a jar. They do not understand the beauty of death, they only fear it. If given the opportunity to be dumped in the forest or a body of water, you should embrace it, as it is better than the alternative.
There is even beauty in the embarrassment.
Whether you like it or not, your body will have no regard for the rules you’ve set for it, the rules society hammered into you. Your body will not be ashamed as it is stripped naked, it will not try to seduce or to hide. This is the most authentic way to exist, with no regards to the sensitivities of others, no sense of right or wrong.
The beauty is in that authenticity.
Death is
- inevitable.
- freedom.
- orgasmic.
- recycling.
- disgusting.
- ritualistic.
- friendly.
- infinite.
- dissolution.
- sorrowful.
- transformative.
