One may read something akin to the Red Death as a woe's tale of utter death in the face of uncertainty and unyielding disease, which is true. Is there not some fantastical fascination with the concept of death, that it is, in fact, intriguing to no end? That there is not but utter lust for what lies beyond the voids of endless sleep, a curious venture for the ponderous? With such a way it is perspective that drives any answer, no two quite the same, much as is many deaths, whether hack, slash, crush, or plain puree (by any means that is). Mr. Poe drives quite the perspective in his own way, weaving a massacre into a web of utter beauty, each gory piece another marvelous facet in the depths of horror. If only such could be the way of all similar scenes, and if only that truth were the one from which all were based. Perhaps then such fates would seems less dreary, so dismal, so eternally agonizing as to provoke the madness of curiosity, the killer.
Inevitably, this image is compared to with Darkness and evil, its seeming synonym of all ages to and fro. As such we give it a face to hate, a masque to be abhorred with every fiber of sensible being for what it is deigned, not is in actuality. The real figure beneath the masque could be as real as the veneer, a whisper of a cruel humor lost in time, or perhaps as in contrast to the masque as to burn with its holding in each agonizing moment, all caused by the victim in a craze of misguidance. Perhaps we would do better to pity those we admonish for their actions, who knows what grinding nature that subjugation might inject into the fractured psyche, longing for release in its twisted prison of flesh and horror. Such is unlikely, but surely not impossible in the slightest. All possibilities are at odds to be heard, and all must to see that perhaps we the angels are the monsters of the deepest hellish abyss.
It is curious to ponder the beauty of some figment such as Death, or especially one of its agents like that of the Red Death. Even if all positive or even neutral possibilities come to be null and void, the visual wonder is still present in the smock of the reaping hand, a marvel not beautiful because of its looks like that of some model to most others, but to an awe struck audience in observance of such power, we tremble with decadent fear and proceed where the wind becks. Such novelty is not to be underrated, since if one was to not experience this particular rapture of their will, then one would find only doldrums and a misery not of loss, but a lack of. Much like if one had an everlasting familial tree, its would be tedious and bothersome to be all inclusive or exclusive, there would simply be too many eyes to pry, simply because they cannot die. So to have what seemingly little there is, is a great blessing few realize when too much is had, a sort of drunken stupor, and all painfully see when all is indeed gone.
I suppose my moral comes in the form of a legend, one that seems so fragile, but yet unstoppable. There is an agent, who bears Death as its Masque, a masque so tainted in blood as to be of the blood itself in turn. This agent brought the wrath of Decay upon the Land, and Darkness followed in the absence of Life, like its own disease. So, the great of the healthy and afflicted bore their own will against the great butcher of lights, only to have a costly victory, well unworthy of its weight. While the Blood has dried and gone away, so had any purity remaining in the Land, as each Hand dipped to receive the spoils, their just desserts were as infectious as the Disease's superior, a hazard brought by the Justified. So the Land remained in Death, ever Decaying and Darkening with each passing light. However, a great lesson was said, as Death lives, we remain, but as it goes away, never one to be destroyed, we truly disappear, the ultimate fear. As without such a grim thrall for the deceased, they had no place to go, mere Shadow engulfed them on their derelict wayward wanderings.
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