Illustrious Nocturnal Habitats for Diseased Minds

Pickman's Model

I am somewhat desensitised to the world. Much that should horrify does not initially, unless I actively make myself sensitive to the matter at hand. Ghastly and grisly events are reported so regularly on the news that they seem unexceptional. They occur so infrequently in my own life, that reports of them elsewhere seem remote, disconnected from my reality, and inconsequential.

In some ways, I think that this is good. I remain sensible and rational when hearing or thinking about many disturbing things. This is also bad. Often, you might want to be emotional about such events, so you can better sympathise and understand the consequences to the pitiful subjects of the horror.

Thankfully, I feel I am not so far gone as to be immune and totally insensible to the tragedies of others, especially the real life ones that are all the more tragic for being real, and not just a perverse fiction let loose from a demented imagination. I understand that many people, however, are more immune to I and feel minimal remorse for relatively reprehensible acts against life. Some people I read blame moral decay resulting from the rise of materialism and secularism, but I don't.

Hopefully not too much to the disappointment of my friend Frank, the morose writings of H.P. Lovecraft fascinate me. By far preferable for me to any modern horror found in film, his writings leave much to the imagination, and to what terrifying depths ones imagination can stoop, when given a little guidance. Of course, it's not so simple at my level of removal from the world around me (the desensitisation I spoke of above) to be moved by nightmares manifested in words. I first have to volunteer my courage to crumble and allow my dread to feed truly frightening ideas into my awareness of the world. These are not just pretty words, but documentation of the very things that lurk under window sills and creep along your sleeping skin, feeding off your health and sanity.

He writes very well. After reading any work of his, I wish to drop my latest set of ambitions in favour of writing after him, chasing him into the darkness into which he has himself since vanished. But let me dream not for too long, lest I waste a life perfectly well suited to the labour of logical programming. Many have tried to repeat what H. P. Lovecraft achieved and the relative quality of their imitations cause me almost more pain and cringing than the grisliest horror.

But what purpose does this all serve? Is it simply to frighten grown men and women like a naïve children? No. Subjecting myself to the psychotherapy of darker writings help rescue me from the desensitisation or insincere sensitivity. Awareness of what shapes enemies to my existence and sanity could take provide a new basis against which I can really appreciate the sunlight and smiles of my present situation.

Pickman's Model