Darkness rend thy soul of horror.

Wonder at life, the two-sided coin,
Marvel at hate, the jack of scorn.
Admire the dark, the balance to light,
Witness the dark, that lays in thine soul.
Fear not the darkness, for it is thy friend,
Shun not the evil that lays in thy heart.
Display outward virtue, blaspheme against truth,
Redemption of falsities, deep in the future lies.

Have you
Ever known
A second side to your heart?
That queries
And questions
Every step your conscience takes?
Conscience and morals
Have their antitheses:
Let not they fester, but fuel them to tempest.

A masque for thy true face.
A screen for thy heart.
A barrier for emotions.
A wall for thineself.
Board up the feelings that would otherwise ring true,
Lest they are broadcast and made known to those few.
Those same few that hunt you
And tell you "do good"
Those same few who tame you
To listen to their bid.
Hang all morality!
Cross all deception!
Unveil thy true self! O Servant of Heart!

Have you ever known a person who has a darkness in their heart? A weight that binds them down to hell, chaining them to their fate. Catalysts would be items, or events, or perhaps people; yet those who can quell these ebbs and pulses of the rush of evil: they are the ones who best balance their mental state. Even this comes at a price: A false persona is projected, empty and hollow, a mere husk to respond to the world. Behind the shell, the true self is collapsing, buried under the barrage of miasmic forces of rage. The conscience a mere weapon of light, hopelessly outmatched by the tide of evil.

And still unrent remain their souls, just lost forever in the void of abyssal hate. Nothing reaches them, touches them, moves them, saves them. The physical rejected, the transcendence of a great cost. And increasingly, they turn inwards, lost in their world, the eternal time-consuming task of reshaping their realm, a task so absorbing that one can only take it without a trace of joy. The darkness never wins, the soul never loses... nor sleeps.

Housed in its eternal orbit, the soul of the tormented flits about their astral scape, shying from the darkness at the border and the exclave of light just beyond. An abode of no escape and every door an entrance. A home where no man lives, at least lives like a man. And their body still fully flesh, in our corporeal world, interacting with none of the true intelligence, but an automaton-copy of the subject. This is their danger: There is no conscience, merely a Night Council of advisors, telling them what to do heedless of anything a real person would think.

There comes a point where one must ask: Is anyone truly like that?
And from shell to shell, husk to husk, I respond: Listen not to me, but to the counsel of your head. Detect you the Night Council, that tenuous link we share?
And scream in the knowledge of the Soul's true whereabouts.