Balloons

Balloons. What can you say about them. They fill with a liquid or gas and if too full they pop. If they are too cold they are extremely brittle and can crack. When too hot, they melt. When left alone in the ravages of time, they dry rot. However, the point of a balloon is to contain things. That is it's purpose.

Most of us are used to seeing balloons filled with some lighter than air gas, prancing around on a string or other tether. If the balloon gets loose, then it soars into the sky headed for certain disaster an awful lot like Icarus. However most balloons stay grounded by their tethers until the ravages of time and osmosis make the trade and they sink slowly earthwards.

Then again, some balloons are untied. This looses all of their internal pressures out into a short lived rage where they fly about and burn brightly before once more falling to the ground. Others untied and held abusively; the internal pressure making all sorts of rude noises. Others yet are untied and held carefully so that they may rid themselves of their internal pressures and balance the aethers within.

Das dab ka i roata le neve vurdoneski

I have realized a need for balance. I understand that perhaps the equilibrium that others seek isn't for me. I just need to feel closer to balanced.

I know many kindred with cracks, others whose psyches have melted, and plenty who just rot. Luckily I don't know any who have popped. Some try to soar too fast, others just sink back to the ground.

I've been looking for a mortal therapist. Perhaps Oliver will work out.

Nashti zhas vorta po drom o bango

This should go well...

-L

Elections

Our exalted leader has decided that the traditional position of a Primogen is due for elections. This tedious exercise should be fun. My opponent is my friend Joe Diparma. I will win of course, but I appreciate him running against me. He is an opponent not to be underestimated.

Ahh, Politics... O xonxano baro.

-L

News

Kai zhal o vurdon vurma a mekel

At our usual bi-monthly dinner Alec my business manager mentioned an interesting story in the news. Something that caught my attention. Apparently Wicker Park's suicides spiked in the month of December. Now, around the holidays things like this are common, but Wicker Park's numbers are especially high. This concerns me for a number of reasons.

First, Wicker Park is a smaller neighborhood within the territory of West Town. West Town is mine. Second, Jonathan Clay is responsible for Wicker Park in that he eats there. He should be keeping up his feeding grounds. I should talk to him about it. But now that we've just begun to repair our friendship I am hesitant to reprimand a friend for a simple mistake for which I strongly doubt he is responsible.

Oh, what to do. What to do.

Sometimes I feel like establishing myself here was a mistake. However, I often feel that establishing myself elsewhere would be just as big of a mistake. With all of my successes here, I feel doomed. I feel like the tangible blackness that is the night reaches out to entangle me and hold me down. Mater Tenebrarum haunts my day dreams. A being of shadows perhaps from the depths of the black between the stars itself. Perhaps if she comes for me I could ask her questions before the end...

Reminds me that I should either sleep or get back to my experiments.

Meetings With Inferiors

Tonight was one of those nights.

I mean, you convince a number of people that your way is the way so that they give to you with fervor. However in return what they ask seems so minimal at first. Now, I feel like things may have gotten out of hand. I mean slightly. Perhaps I'm just tired of dealing with fanatic adoration.

*sigh*
Mater Suspiriorum, Our Lady of Sighs, give me strength to endure.

*sigh*


So, here's the story. Who here is familiar with the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn? It is the most commonly known of the formerly secret occult orders. Well, I made the mistake of building a cult using their model with a high priest of unquestionable authority, ranks and initiation grades, and private consultation with the occasional blood letting. The focus of the rituals and worship were elder gods in the black of space between the stars and planets; imprisoned in almost infinite space.

Sounds great right? A replenishing source of food, children to lead around by the hand, and so on. What could be the problem? Well... since you asked... the time dedication. At least once a month we meet to perform the 'sacred' rituals... and then after they talk they want to know more they want help with all of their mundane problems. I didn't realize I was recruiting the most inquisitive of the dysfunctional.

It is so much work. Sometimes I question its value. With my evolution, I do not feel the hunger as often. I still desire to drink, but that is gluttony for the feast, lust for the feeling, or greed for always being full. Perhaps more of the seven even. I now understand the amount of effort Harold was willing to put in in order to develop his racks.

Still: May mishto les o thud kator i gurumni kai tordjil.

Maybe that is the lesson to take from this. In the end, it is easier and safer than the alternative.

*sigh*

I've brought this upon myself

O zalzaro khal peski piri.

I have spent the past few weeks distraught over the issues between friends. The resounding silence shook me. Not a one of them tried to fix the problem. Not a one of them. Leaders. Oversight. No one cares.

Liars. Every last one. They were all fools. Clay played a game of misinformation and Czalk along with him. Those two taught me a lesson. After talking with Clay we are even. Either he or Czalk have lied to me. I will learn which one. However, I have brought this upon myself.

Kon khakhavel o balo wi leste si I shuri.

-L