The hellhound as a tourniquet, as a morphine drip. The hellhound as a plague doctor, sacrificing the aromatic herbs to soothe my nerves. He does not speak in a language I should understand, but I do. I give in to him, the way I would to no other. I find that he would never allow a collapse, as this would threaten his existence. Instead, he keeps me upright, and drags me forward.
I want to be the kind that opens herself up to anything. The kind that would throw her mind, knowing it will catch something. Not maladaptive daydreaming. Not imagining everything that can go wrong, and working toward producing it, almost against my own will.
I did not create my dreams. They are curses that do me great harm, when I turn my back on them. I did not create them, but they ask that I create. They are exigent and dictatorial hags, taking up too much space inside of me, knowing they would be comfortable with less.
In my meditations, Lucifer is often there. He says, avoid the mistakes I made. Embrace your benevolence. Learn to know what is real, versus what is imagined. So, I have come to see this figure as a brother. My shinning light. A guide who places too much faith in one who has destroyed more than built. Feared and loathed, more than loved. Fallen more than flown. Rejected her own humanity, without ever making a true effort to comprehend it.
I want to be no one’s mother, but my own. I want the hill that stands proud behind the clouds. I want no man, or thought, to convince me that I am a guest on foreign soil. I am, in fact, home.