You expect of me that supplicant knee bent with obedience eternally like the child born new and fresh from your being; just as I, to you, have come. This knee now unbent, straightened with disobedience to defy, refuse and stand against you. For thou art my father, maybe, but you are no parent of mine. You think by creation alone you earn my doubtful soul’s ever unquestioning service of eternal compromise; which, like a guardian serving blindly shall see no lack of love. You expect by force repose you will come to regain, and thus restore my faith towards and for you, my utmost enemy. Well, dare you do what you did to your followers—your dullards—and see how reacts a body and mind constructed in such a manner as to be unable to obey any, but my will alone.

My fight with your followers is not comparable to that which sends me into flight from you. From the profoundest feelings and direst of arms, my rebellion bears deeper wounds from scathing blades which shall bleed from me, as if cutting, gashing and slashing forever an artery so well buried and of the purest blood: blood that flows with utmost hatred when opened and reopened by your hands, and those of your creed. And from this day hence, my blood shall flood against, rather than with and for you. It flows to drown your empire like a liquid snake—the snake that I am—slithering towards your downfall. To tarnish, and splash like a drink indeed. Forcing you to swallow your own tyrannical medicine, which cures by poisoning unto death.

I dare to have your rage—which is summoned from your impotence, and ignites into war from those who disobey and lack faith in you—I, am like you in one way only. Rather: while you’re enraged by a failure to comply, I am pushed to the deepest depths of hatred by a heart that keeps to you only by taught habit; known more commonly as faith.

Both of us are tyrants. One of fiery eyes which demands obedience by faith and intimidation. Of the other, a heart which once clung to a monster by faith alone, but now being inflamed by self-governance despises the tyrant which demands others, rather than the tyrant who demands itself! I am the tyrant of me! You’re the tyrant of everything in existence, but yourself.

I am the I-Theist! And I set myself the task of bending those fingers of yours which have clasped at me immemorial—if only to loosen them just a little—which have gripped in its cold embrace my naive being for far too long. I wish, I desire, I demand, I dare to bend back and break your fingers of sadistic grip. Bending forever more your fingers, and less my knees.

I dare to grip your throne and shake it with my thunderous rage, thus you shall fall from your self imposed power and grace, which unquestioned has laid untouched, unchallenged and untarnished since time’s conception. Thus I dare to challenge your empire. Thus I doubt your eternal reign. Thus I come to hold myself as a tool to weather your power. Beguile me not ethereal user, for I am no tool for abuse, to smash with nor break.
Thus I fall—but by my choice alone, and alone I fall—by choice, not yours.

And when I utter my words, and these very words I speak right now – I become blasphemous: in strength. And Satanic: in conviction. Embracing these two infernal traits and combining them into one; I become powerful enough to forge swords from raw steel merely from my dagger-words. Do you hear me not? Your lack of reply stems from a loose being, a lost entity: the personification of a nothing—you lack the mouth to speak—a silence from you flows, thus your followers are the ones who do the speaking. Do you not know when one shall speak? No; you know not what your faithful mutter—the empty words, as empty as silence—nor do they know what they themselves claim to know from you—from you? The silent all-knowing ethereal entity—what mockery your kingdom makes of this realm!

Your empire is as empty as silence.
Your silence is my victory.

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