I have chosen to make a friend out of Satan. My allegiance is to monsters. This was done out of hard-won wisdom. Finding myself in the darkness, my only way out is by knowing the territory.
At first, my approach was met with rejection and mockery. I have since learned the tongue of demons.
I needed their knowledge. They know the only way out. One unmarked path back to the light.
I know now that everything I ever thought to be right, is wrong. There is the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. They were the wires that kept me upright, when I was near collapse. But, the Father cannot be accounted for, the Son keeps his silence, and the Holy Spirit does as the other spirits. It hides, and It does it well. Or, this appears to be the case, because the world I live in is fabricated. It is one in which I am the only god, but not much of one. This world stitched together with fantasy and dreams. Nothing is real. Nothing is solid.
8:47pm. I am alone. Unloved. Skin toughened and pale. Untouched by men that I fear and adore. Rejected by women who find me intimidating.
I want to scream out my prayers, which have proven useless.
Though my habits are old, they are not weak.
Though I am broken, my determination is not.
I want to turn my back on a God, who has done nothing but make a mockery out of my life.
I am tied to old structures, like a rabid dog. And it is hot. And the binding is cutting into my skin.
The wheels turn, but they do not break.
The voices are never satisfied with the destruction they cause. They never grow hoarse, or lose their potency. But if they ceased their rapid fire attacks, I believe I would find myself lonely. My life has always been turbulent, from within and without. It is the noise that both disturbs and soothes. It is the familiar, even when heavy with toxicity, that makes it feel safe to proceed. I am used to the poison, and the illness it produces. I know how to keep myself warm in cold weather. I know where to seek shelter in a storm. Peace is a foreign affair.
Francisco is new to me. A dog that, by nature, forms a bond that creates a loyalty I know nothing about. Loyalty to something not abstract, or completely fabricated is unfamiliar. He spies on me through the corner of his eyes, approving of it all. Ruey, I call him, and I do this often so that he may come close to me, in order to examine him in a similar fashion. Through eyes loving and encouraging.
We walk, the two us, like king and queen. Next to him, I rise. I am certain that I know nothing, and am comfortable with an empty head. The fear touches me, but it does not reach my throat.
He is a young child. Not old. Not breathing in adulthood.
He is a noble soul, never to be corrupted.
I travel back in time for fun and for torture, never finding anything worthwhile. Many times over, I make an attempt at changing what I have done and said. The words will not mold to my desires. My actions run faster than my thoughts.
Life as a performer in the Panic Circus. Mind racing, palms sweating, catastrophic thoughts. My health is precarious, life is dangerous. A plane will fall from the sky, the heart will give out, the dead will rise from their graves. No one can stop it. The flood will destroy everything.
I am my father. I neglect myself, existing only when there is hatred to take out on someone. It will always turn in on itself.