Once, long ago, a little seed was planted in my brain.
I did not have any water to quench its thirst, so I lovingly irrigated it with my blood. Inevitably, it sprouted into a writhing seedling that demanded sunshine, which, regretfully, I could not supply. I only had the cavernous dark of my skull to offer. At first it was displeased, but went on to adapt rather quickly. It expanded its roots in a most twisted and convoluted manner, attaching itself to the vital operations of my nervous system. Deciding that it quite liked the dark after all, it grew very powerful—and I was afraid.
Often, it would dismember my consciousness and use my body to employ unspeakable crafts and scribe blasphemous thoughts one cannot, dare not name. I realized with horror that I had said and done things diametrically opposed to my innocent thoughts and feelings—I was the prey of an alien psychic factor.
This went on until it finally matured and bore succulent fruits—the most beautiful I have ever seen. And to my relief, its cruel diableries diminished. It kindly offered the fruit to me as a token of gratitude, but in my resentful exhaustion, I left the fruit in the earth to rot and its bearer to starve and die. I laughed hideously as it made its final quivers beneath my imposing shadow.
As countless days and nights passed, I watched the fruit spoil and wriggle with worms and ooze in horrid ways. I felt ashamed for my lack of patience and remorseful for my negligence. I took what was left of the fermented remains and mashed them into a pulpy mixture which I thirstily quaffed. It had the consistency of my own flesh and blood, but tasted as sweet as nectar culled from a lonely tree.
Only then did I revel in the forbidden pleasures of which I once deprived myself. I culled the thick twisting shadows surrounding me to fortify my infernal arts. I communed with the ghouls of forest and tomb so that they may enlighten me with their strange, old ways. I transmuted entropy from the vast cosmos into weird words on my paper.