It's not Horror, it's Eliade. From the Dark Night of the Soul to The Death of the Ego

Since the self dubbed "first Romanian horror movie" appeared in cinemas, I was forced on several social occasions to defend in small talk words and thus somehow mire my relationship with Eliade's literature. It wasn't the first time my intended discourse hit head-on the wall of exotericism. Interacting with people in general has that effect on me.

What I should have said is: It's one thing to be scared out of your regular heartbeat through the hollywoodian profane element of surprising horror or gore. It's a whole other world to be expelled out of your self through the awe inducing, mythic supernatural of Eliade.

Unlike the self-absorbed Artist, who is unable to accept the Sufferance derived from the intersection between the profane and sacred, matter and spirit, imperfect existence and aspirations to perfection, who is unable to accept the Sufferance triggered by the human condition and constantly opts to evade it through artistic creation, becoming trapped into an eternal Nigredo, the selfless Eliade masterfully draws you in with him into the sacred truth of the cosmic human and you are, if willing and ready, plunged into the ultimate uncanny, blood chilling, spine shivering, awfully marvelous manifestation and experience of the supernatural within the natural. If you let it, Eliade's fiction acts as the cosmic psychoanalyst, the tzadik that draws you into his soul trip and shows you what you need to do to heal and transcend. He slyly immerses you into the Darkness of the Soul to horrify you out of your selfish, ego satiated, self.

No, this is not horror. No, this is not Art. This is The Great Art. This is attaining Albedo through Nigredo. This is Alchemy. This is the literary Eliade.

Well, at least Dan Pița seems to get me.

William Shakespeare's Chemical Wedding

Let me not to the marriage of true kinds
Admit impediments. Art is not sulfur
Which alters when it mercury finds,
Or bends with the philosopher to fold:
Oh no! It is an ever-fixed sigil
That looks on Asiah and is never shaken;
It is the True Node to every wandering vigil
Whose worth's unknown, although his sign be taken.
Art is not Time's fool, though rosy cross and streaks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Art alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of Aziluth.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never moved, nor no man ever changed.

Life as a constant detour

I was told, on many what-should-you-do-with-your-life occasions, that doing this or that is not for me. That I should rather do those instead. And on as many occasions, I've laughed and continued on my current way until I met the goal.

On many right occasions, the only motivation and drive I've had to do this and that were the feeling that I can do them better than others and the conviction that this somehow bound me, through an unnamed celestial contract, to do them. To set an example for those who would come after me. Leave a road map. Turn on the light at the end of the tunnel before proceeding to the next one.

On other occasions, I've slept into the side road of doing those wrong things because I seemed at first unable to do them well and that defied and challenged me. Those things beckoned to be tried, experienced, and done by me through their exoticism and difference from what I was used to. And on I went, into the Garden of perpetual detours, back-and-forth between old and new, familiar and unfamiliar, meant to be and made to be. North Node and South Node. Until I became lost.

The Archer sets its target, points the arrow, shoots, and, once the arrow has pierced through the center of the bull's eye, moves along to the next target. Never lingering, forever set on new, unconquered territory. The King revels in deserved attention. The Ram bellows its will ahead. The Scorpion descends into hermetic hiding. The Ego disperses.

A side road to feeling nothing is choosing to feel something different than what you are supposed to and expected to. Or what you expect of yourself. Avoiding Art because it damns and doing science instead. Cursing science because it is Da'Ath. Fending magic because it is demonic. Despising culture because it is exoteric, mediocre, and ultimately a filthy lie. Forsaking Punk and DaDa because they are dead. Spitting in the face of Nietzsche because he is dead too. Avoiding the simple life, because you feel you are passed that. Living this and living that but never living life. As life should. Never living fully. All the way, on that one, designated, painful way. For you. Forever taking a detour.