Death is not what you actually think. That is to say that you underestimate her. The more you know about her, the less you get to know her. Meeting her is the ultimate mistake of yours. The thing is, Basil almost met her in the most desperate way. However, there is a catch to this. You need to see what it can be done about it in the most fascinating way to see what it can be done for him. That is to say that Tengu was controlled by infinite ignorance that targeted. In this way, everything got in its own way to the top that we could actually have for the winning trophy that we had in the most conspicuous way. That is to say that death was pissed off, making all her angels interfere in what infinite ignorance was trying to do, leading her to commit herself to interfering with the art of life and death.
The thing is, she ain't some grim reaper dude with a scythe that can cut your balls; she's the princess of death that stop your heart with a breath, supreme authority draped in shadows of love and darkness, ruling the forests of death where smiling red trees feed on eternal sorrow that can make you cry in the most wonderful one of the worlds of her mercy, where ascended monsters prowl like forgotten lovers that could haunt your most beautiful dreams within what we call the unconscious, and every leaf whispers the chant of endings that everyone can face.
In every culture that you may face, she wears different faces but holds the same throne that we can see in the complex framework of it that buries the most poisonous attitude in the eternal dream that we can have. That is to say that death manifests as her, the feminine supreme or perhaps it is not what you mean by living a meaningless life where everyone rejects, the dark mother who chradles flux in her lap like crushing brains and crushes it when the harmony snaps in absolute pain that can shake what it means to be in sorrow.
Look at the Egyptians or as I would rather call the ones who let themselves be conquered : they call her echoes in Nephthys that we can see in the most furious way that we are in the darkness or perhaps the liberation of what we can see on the surface, guardian of the dead, mourning Osiris while Anbis weighs hearts like a lover judging affection we have for the most excruciating of lovers , too heavy like my heart everyday that can shake what it means to be in love, and you're denied the afterlife because she was not there for you to testify in the greatest step of things, resentment eternal like the one who has the right measure of love for you.
Or Mictecacihuatl, Aztec Lady Death, skeletal queen of Mictlan, bones rattling in the underworld's depths, devouring hope like a woman scorned who never got her satisfaction. In Norse lands, she is Hel, half-rotted beauty ruling Niflheim, where the gentle dead go, not warriors, but the quiet ones who fade like flowers sleeping with the earth. No Valhalla glory for them; just her cold hall, impartial, unblessed by moon or mother that could actually rhyme with the ideal hope in the arms of a mother.
The thing is, in Celtic whispers that haunt my enchanting dream of wisdom, she's the Morrigan that embraces me every night, triple goddess of war in nightmares and fate in what we see in life, washer at the ford who foretells doom in raven form of my golden dark heart, carrying souls on black wings toward rebirth or oblivion of what I once was. That is to say that she decides who walks off the battlefield and who gets carried in the supreme over death's dance in the throat of desire, her gaze as fatal as Basil's moonlit sorrow that consumes my unconquerable soul. Hindu threads weave her into Kali, destroyer-mother, tongue out in ecstasy of annihilation, garland of skulls, dancing on corpses while time itself bends to her rhythm. She conquers hate with destruction, but peace? Justice? Only when she wills it, her authority absolute over cycles that return every spark to darkness that I could have in her most profound wishes.
Even in Japanese shadows that I can have, Izanami rots in Yomi after birthing fire that everything may see, chasing Izanagi with maggot fury that the muse shows to those who suffer in silence, sealed away yet reigning as goddess of death's decay in the most extreme way that we cannot exist for the most limited shame that we can have. In this pain, Mesopotamian Ereshkigal, queen of Irkalla, isolated sovereign where all souls go regardless of virtue or vice, she claims them, her realm the final silence after every sound of my unique desire for flesh. Slavic Morana brings winter's death or maybe it is just my imagination painting what I need from the most enchanted dream in life and death, drowned or burned each spring to renew in the oblivion that we have for the new one, yet her chill lingers eternal. Even so, Maya caves birth Camazotz the death bat, but behind him lurks the feminine pull of Xibalba's queens, luring heroes to doom in the dark turn of the initial happiness.
That is to say that across the omniverse, these are not separate bitches; they are her fragments that she may even aspire to be, her infinite faces staring back from the forests of death between Garagor and the Death empire that no one could ever imagine. She rules those haunted woods where ancient smiling reds smell your yearning from miles, feeding the alive-feeling while shaking the core of what it means to be dead. Basil almost met her in desperation, singing his Deathly Melody, drawing her angelsthose pissed-off interferers against infinite ignorance's Tengu schemes that remind me of my cursed life every time someone rejects my royalty before the wish of being beauty itself for itself. Death got furious, her supreme authority triggered, making all her emissaries crash the party because no void-born fuckery gets to steal her trophy without consequence of the ally of faith.
The more you know her myths from Yama's justice scales echoing in Asian realms, to Thanatos' gentle Greek touch, to Santa Muerte's colorful skeleton grace in modern street in the suffering of pleasure in which she reveals less. That is to say that she's the darker side the bright moon hides, the cemetery unblessed in infinity's love. Even so, you cannot love her when fucking with mortality; every move must be calculated on the right spots, or she resents, leaves you undone in her fatal glance for whatever you see in what we can call beautiful
O my sorrow so big it shakes the omniverse, for she is the princess eternal, hostess of endings where every story bows for no one that can shake the most luminous love or regret that we shake. No control over how it begins or ends that you take into account for what you call love but she sure as hell controls the close like the uroboros of death. Every flower returns to sleep with her earth. Every chant quiets in her forests. And when infinite ignorance tries to meddle? She interferes, her angels swarm, because death's authority is supreme, pissed off, and beautifully merciless. Hahaha! The average fool thinks death is a man; but show me the glint on broken glass under her moonlight, and you'll see her soul in nothing for she is eternal, hostile, supreme.