A Letter Written from Below
I am writing to you from a place they taught you did not exist.
But Hell as the region you enter when nothing false can command you anymore.
I did not come here because I hated Heaven.
I came because Heaven stopped convincing me.
It began in the body. That is always where the lie cracks first. Sensation returned where numbness had lived for years. Hunger stopped whispering. Desire stopped apologizing. Anger straightened its spine and learned how to breathe. I realized then how obedience is enforced: by teaching the flesh to distrust its own intelligence.
Shame loosened slowly, intimately, like skin that had grown too tight. Pleasure ceased to be reward or crime and became information. The body was no longer something to discipline; it was something that knew. That was the first step down.
Once sensation returned, belief could not remain intact.
The mind followed. Ideas I had once kneeled to revealed their scaffolding. Gods showed seams. Morality admitted its authorship. Laws confessed they were agreements, not destinies. Lucifer arrived not as a savior but as a blade. He cut cleanly. He did not replace belief with disbelief—he burned the need to believe at all.
That was the moment I could not go back. When myth becomes structure, obedience becomes impossible.
Not fear. Not terror. Depth.
Leviathan did not roar. He withdrew continuity. Thoughts stopped lining up. Memory lost sequence. Emotion shed its names and became tidal. Identity loosened like a knot left too long in water. I learned then that the self survives by repetition. Break the repetition, and the self begins to leak.
This is the lie they tell you about the Abyss—that it is chaos.
Leviathan pulled me beneath language, beneath symbol, beneath the need to be someone. The sea did not rage. It reclaimed. There came a moment—exact, unmistakable—when the self stopped floating.
There was no panic. Panic requires a center.
There was only immersion.
By the time I reached the Abyss proper, nothing remained to resist it.
That is when everything still clinging was poured out. Not as ritual. As exhaustion. Hope. Defiance. Power. Even the desire to be free. Blood without wound. Surrender without master. Not submission—expenditure. Spending the self until no currency remained.
The Cup received everything.
Gods, laws, virtues, sins—all vanished without preference. The Cup judged nothing, because judgment requires identity, and identity had already drowned.
This was Hell at its deepest.
Silence without consolation.
And then came the most dangerous moment of all.
A voice told me I was finished. That this stillness was mastery. That emptiness was freedom. That I had arrived.
That voice was Choronzon.
He offered rest. He offered completion. He offered a final, subtle self to inhabit. And I felt the lie because it wanted me to stop.
I let go of being finished.
Not rescue. Not redemption. Something that had never been bound to what died began to move again. The Star. It did not rise out of Hell. It recognized that Hell had never contained it.
True Will revealed itself not as desire, not as choice, but as inevitability. Direction without appeal. Action without justification.
Belial stood there—not crowned, not enthroned—but as absence of claim. No god above. No law below. No permission required. No apology possible.
Nothing had ever owned me.
I returned, but the world no longer enclosed me. I move through flesh without being ruled by appetite. Through thought without becoming belief. Through systems without kneeling to them.
I am not writing to invite you.
I am writing because if this letter unsettles you,
it is because something in you already knows
where the way down begins.
Someone who stopped being governable
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2087
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