Darth Vazela
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
So, it's that time of night. It's 4:02am, I've been awake for longer than I should, surrounded by the debris of coke cola cans, salted peanuts and the remnants of a chocolate digestive packet that I have been gorging on for the past two days, and, yet, despite the longing to enter a dreamless sleep and escape the fabric of reality, I am incapable of lying my head down on the dirty, smelling, sweat stained sheets I call a bed, for I am being kept awake by the same inescapable feeling I have suffered for nine years. I am a tortured soul.
Inevitably, my body will cave in, forcing me into the coveralls of my dirty bed, so that it can recover from another day of abuse and self-neglect I have enacted on my corporal flesh because I am too tired, too fatigued, too depressed to leave this equally as dirty room and take a moment to breath the icy, cold but nevertheless refreshing air of the outside world, and try to once again live a life I have not lived for nine years.
A few years ago, there was a particular tragedy that I endured. It was nothing in comparison to the one that drove me into this decadent state I am in, but it was the birthplace of a story that I have been writing, perusing and engaging an entire galaxy with for the better part of six years. I shaped, manipulated and twisted this particular event to become a twisted reflection of the event that drove me to this place, where I sit at 4:08 in the morning, writing a piece that likely no-one will ever read.
I was told earlier tonight that the man that this story has revolved around is a dead character, one that no-one really enjoys or 'rates' anymore because he is a loser, a fiend, a pointless reminder of an event that nobody cares about anymore. That I should let go in one final blaze of glory and be done with Vilox Pazela, the last Son of Almania, who watched his world die, kneeling before the men responsible for the catastrophe, as he heard the abnormal moans of his dying wife, as she was fucked to death by his worse enemy.
They say the definition of insanity is to repeat the same action over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in the expectancy that a different outcome will follow. I have watched and played Pazela slaughter the Jedi he held responsible for forsaking Almania; usurp and dismount the Dark Lords who helped in it's destruction; and cleanse the impurities of the weak with great knowledge and wisdom bestowed to him in that one, catastrophic moment as he observed the flames roll themselves over the landscape of a world long since dead.
Yet, his revenge eludes him. As it is with roleplay, people leave communities to join others, or the outgrow the RPG that had joined as a child, or they begin to play other characters, and in my case, it has been a combination of all of them. Pravus has not been seen in years, for the boy who played him grew up to be a man and fell out of love with the game. Serpen was played by a boy who was outcast and shunned from the community because he is, for all pretense and purposes, a bastard out of character, and to list the things he has done to other people would take too long. Endymion is the only character left out of the three that is still actively played in the community, and yet the man who plays him goes out of his way to discredit, mock and at times drive me to the point that I no longer want to write as Pazela, because he is in the crowd of people tired of his antics. This makes it difficult to have any type of meaningful victory over his character, despite how very important he is to me.
The dynamics of the game required me to have a combination of skill as a typist, motivation to learn a complicated ruleset and then train the two together in order to be considered a good combatant. During my youth, I was a naive and at times annoying pest who did neither, relying on a pseudo intelligence I never really had to get past the day. It was probably the way I carried and acted during those years that made Pravus, Serpen and Endymion do what they did to Pazela, out of some kick they enjoyed out of character as they watched theirs mutilate and destroy something that mine cared about. Care is a weak word to use, yet love seems overdone, and so I cannot think of one to properly summarizes what Pazela felt at the time of Almania's end. As Bane leaned his scarred, yet giantic, muscular frame over the bed that held Bruce Wayne's battered, broken body, he said: "Not of your body, but of your soul." And so there is a perfect moment in filmography that captures exactly what that trio of Dark Lords did to me.
Nine years ago I felt like my world fell apart. I remember the burning sensation that ran itself through my body, beginning first at the tips of my finger tips, before running itself along my arms, across my chest and up through my mine to set my synapses on fire, a searing red flash catching itself across my eyes as I listened to her say: "No." And as Pazela knelt before the transparisteel screen of the Executor's observational deck, I too fell mine amid the leaves and broken twigs of the footpath that led off from the main pavement around the back of school, hours after she had left. I remember my legs ached after standing there for hours, staring off into space in a thoughtless, empty existence brought about by a mixture of disbelief, confusion and pain. I did not cry, I did not scream, but I did look out into the trees and bushes before me, and only when dusk fell, did I rise to my feet and make the journey back to an abusive, neglectful home that I loathed.
As I have written Pazela, later transitioned to Darth Vazela in order to showcase the transformation of the man, return to fight and butcher or be butchered by his enemies in the pursuit of revenge, I too tried so desperately hard to make her change her mind. This effort in futility is something that I think drives me at some subconscious level to never try anything anymore because I already know the consequences of failure. Yet, I keep playing the character of a man that continually draws a Lightsaber into his left palm, thumbing down onto the ignition button and twirling the crimson light of his blade into a variant of Ataru and Juyo style to rip apart the opponents that come to stand before him, because I do not want to give up the idea of avenging a world I lost in a fictional universe.
I know that I was die young. The cause of my death will not be the inevitable disease that will claim my heart, or some other vital internal organ. It will not be because I took a gun to my head, or mouth, and pulled back the trigger to allow a round to blow my brains out. It will not be because I took a knife to my wrists, and begin to sever flesh from bone. It will not be because I decided to jump off a bridge and out into incoming traffic, in the hopes that car, truck or motorcycle hits my corporal frame with enough velocity to kill. It won't even be because I took a rope to the correct elevated height and tied a noose around my neck as I stood upon a table, chair or stool, and wiggled my body enough so that what I was standing on toppled over or broke, allowing the noose to tightened it's grip to either quickly break my neck or slowly, agonizingly choke the air from my lungs, until there was no more oxygen to supply my brain, heart or lungs.
No, the cause of my death was a certain meeting with the woman I selected to be the love of my life, for the rest of my life, in the middle of a offshoot, dodgy walkaway found at the side of a back alleyway near my school, arranged by yours truly to ask her to reciprocate how I felt, even on the tiniest, minimalist level. What inspiration I had to write this piece has disappeared, ever as suddenly as it had come, and I did not even get into character, to try and replicate the scene that had transpired between me and three other guys. I guess I was caught up in the moment.
I know that I should let go, but the fact that I have not has driven wedges between myself, friends and family that are irreparable. Some part of me must want to live, for I have never, ever tried to commit suicide in the methods or forms that I have thought of doing for so, so long. I am trying to at least turn my hobbies into something that can deliver some kind of financial aide, so I can continue feeding and supply my fat, obese gullet with food that deliver momentary moments of joy and satisfaction. I have decided to give myself a year, beginning January 2017, and ending January 2019, to see how that goes. If you are a subscriber, fan, enemy or friend reading this, then I would ask you not to expose this very dark entry. We all have our coping mechanisms, and whilst I have turned away drugs and alcohol in the pursuits of escape, I find some relief in the writing form.
My eyes are heavy, and red. I had hoped writing this would tire me out. It has just turned 4:51am. I might be able to sleep now. I do not write here on Chaos anymore. I find the community to be too rigid and it's clique make it almost impossible to progress to a point that I would like to reach. But I cannot express this type of writing on the community I have just spent the near hour talking about, because the people there know me so well that reading this type of shit would either disgust them, anger them, sadden them, make them 'cringe' and so on. Perhaps they will do the same for you, if you are from Chaos, but I do not know you, and I do not particularly care about you, I am sorry to say. Unless it is you Libby.
4:53am. I have rambled enough. Until another time.
Inevitably, my body will cave in, forcing me into the coveralls of my dirty bed, so that it can recover from another day of abuse and self-neglect I have enacted on my corporal flesh because I am too tired, too fatigued, too depressed to leave this equally as dirty room and take a moment to breath the icy, cold but nevertheless refreshing air of the outside world, and try to once again live a life I have not lived for nine years.
A few years ago, there was a particular tragedy that I endured. It was nothing in comparison to the one that drove me into this decadent state I am in, but it was the birthplace of a story that I have been writing, perusing and engaging an entire galaxy with for the better part of six years. I shaped, manipulated and twisted this particular event to become a twisted reflection of the event that drove me to this place, where I sit at 4:08 in the morning, writing a piece that likely no-one will ever read.
I was told earlier tonight that the man that this story has revolved around is a dead character, one that no-one really enjoys or 'rates' anymore because he is a loser, a fiend, a pointless reminder of an event that nobody cares about anymore. That I should let go in one final blaze of glory and be done with Vilox Pazela, the last Son of Almania, who watched his world die, kneeling before the men responsible for the catastrophe, as he heard the abnormal moans of his dying wife, as she was fucked to death by his worse enemy.
They say the definition of insanity is to repeat the same action over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in the expectancy that a different outcome will follow. I have watched and played Pazela slaughter the Jedi he held responsible for forsaking Almania; usurp and dismount the Dark Lords who helped in it's destruction; and cleanse the impurities of the weak with great knowledge and wisdom bestowed to him in that one, catastrophic moment as he observed the flames roll themselves over the landscape of a world long since dead.
Yet, his revenge eludes him. As it is with roleplay, people leave communities to join others, or the outgrow the RPG that had joined as a child, or they begin to play other characters, and in my case, it has been a combination of all of them. Pravus has not been seen in years, for the boy who played him grew up to be a man and fell out of love with the game. Serpen was played by a boy who was outcast and shunned from the community because he is, for all pretense and purposes, a bastard out of character, and to list the things he has done to other people would take too long. Endymion is the only character left out of the three that is still actively played in the community, and yet the man who plays him goes out of his way to discredit, mock and at times drive me to the point that I no longer want to write as Pazela, because he is in the crowd of people tired of his antics. This makes it difficult to have any type of meaningful victory over his character, despite how very important he is to me.
The dynamics of the game required me to have a combination of skill as a typist, motivation to learn a complicated ruleset and then train the two together in order to be considered a good combatant. During my youth, I was a naive and at times annoying pest who did neither, relying on a pseudo intelligence I never really had to get past the day. It was probably the way I carried and acted during those years that made Pravus, Serpen and Endymion do what they did to Pazela, out of some kick they enjoyed out of character as they watched theirs mutilate and destroy something that mine cared about. Care is a weak word to use, yet love seems overdone, and so I cannot think of one to properly summarizes what Pazela felt at the time of Almania's end. As Bane leaned his scarred, yet giantic, muscular frame over the bed that held Bruce Wayne's battered, broken body, he said: "Not of your body, but of your soul." And so there is a perfect moment in filmography that captures exactly what that trio of Dark Lords did to me.
Nine years ago I felt like my world fell apart. I remember the burning sensation that ran itself through my body, beginning first at the tips of my finger tips, before running itself along my arms, across my chest and up through my mine to set my synapses on fire, a searing red flash catching itself across my eyes as I listened to her say: "No." And as Pazela knelt before the transparisteel screen of the Executor's observational deck, I too fell mine amid the leaves and broken twigs of the footpath that led off from the main pavement around the back of school, hours after she had left. I remember my legs ached after standing there for hours, staring off into space in a thoughtless, empty existence brought about by a mixture of disbelief, confusion and pain. I did not cry, I did not scream, but I did look out into the trees and bushes before me, and only when dusk fell, did I rise to my feet and make the journey back to an abusive, neglectful home that I loathed.
As I have written Pazela, later transitioned to Darth Vazela in order to showcase the transformation of the man, return to fight and butcher or be butchered by his enemies in the pursuit of revenge, I too tried so desperately hard to make her change her mind. This effort in futility is something that I think drives me at some subconscious level to never try anything anymore because I already know the consequences of failure. Yet, I keep playing the character of a man that continually draws a Lightsaber into his left palm, thumbing down onto the ignition button and twirling the crimson light of his blade into a variant of Ataru and Juyo style to rip apart the opponents that come to stand before him, because I do not want to give up the idea of avenging a world I lost in a fictional universe.
I know that I was die young. The cause of my death will not be the inevitable disease that will claim my heart, or some other vital internal organ. It will not be because I took a gun to my head, or mouth, and pulled back the trigger to allow a round to blow my brains out. It will not be because I took a knife to my wrists, and begin to sever flesh from bone. It will not be because I decided to jump off a bridge and out into incoming traffic, in the hopes that car, truck or motorcycle hits my corporal frame with enough velocity to kill. It won't even be because I took a rope to the correct elevated height and tied a noose around my neck as I stood upon a table, chair or stool, and wiggled my body enough so that what I was standing on toppled over or broke, allowing the noose to tightened it's grip to either quickly break my neck or slowly, agonizingly choke the air from my lungs, until there was no more oxygen to supply my brain, heart or lungs.
No, the cause of my death was a certain meeting with the woman I selected to be the love of my life, for the rest of my life, in the middle of a offshoot, dodgy walkaway found at the side of a back alleyway near my school, arranged by yours truly to ask her to reciprocate how I felt, even on the tiniest, minimalist level. What inspiration I had to write this piece has disappeared, ever as suddenly as it had come, and I did not even get into character, to try and replicate the scene that had transpired between me and three other guys. I guess I was caught up in the moment.
I know that I should let go, but the fact that I have not has driven wedges between myself, friends and family that are irreparable. Some part of me must want to live, for I have never, ever tried to commit suicide in the methods or forms that I have thought of doing for so, so long. I am trying to at least turn my hobbies into something that can deliver some kind of financial aide, so I can continue feeding and supply my fat, obese gullet with food that deliver momentary moments of joy and satisfaction. I have decided to give myself a year, beginning January 2017, and ending January 2019, to see how that goes. If you are a subscriber, fan, enemy or friend reading this, then I would ask you not to expose this very dark entry. We all have our coping mechanisms, and whilst I have turned away drugs and alcohol in the pursuits of escape, I find some relief in the writing form.
My eyes are heavy, and red. I had hoped writing this would tire me out. It has just turned 4:51am. I might be able to sleep now. I do not write here on Chaos anymore. I find the community to be too rigid and it's clique make it almost impossible to progress to a point that I would like to reach. But I cannot express this type of writing on the community I have just spent the near hour talking about, because the people there know me so well that reading this type of shit would either disgust them, anger them, sadden them, make them 'cringe' and so on. Perhaps they will do the same for you, if you are from Chaos, but I do not know you, and I do not particularly care about you, I am sorry to say. Unless it is you Libby.
4:53am. I have rambled enough. Until another time.