It was one day last December when I kissed the devil on my shoulder, full on the lips. And as my mind slowly yet savagely split apart, I feared I would never come back together the same again. This shall remain unseen, pass like a shadow in the dark. And it is never to be known, like the soul. It is a flash of perception too swift to sense, known yet unseen, like the face reflected in the mirror here. This is the quiet corruption of the estranged. And it all began at the first breath, this mercilessly labyrinthine fate. For the sodomy of the Soul begins for most in the zygotic phase-when it is but an Ideal within an Idea within the faint premonition of an entity we come to loathe with seething contempt.
And although I know that I writhe not in solitude, I also sense how stupefyingly alone I am in such revelations and confessions, as only the devil may care or feign to bear the blame while I ravage myself in endless shame. For the secret that lies behind these bright eyes is denied expurgation time and time again by a saint in diguise. For we are all angels masquerading as devils despite the longings we toil within. Yet what the forked tongues of our many kindred creatures tell us is rarely what we hear. Yet, they admonish us, our interpretation is unintelligible, is in abominable dissent-is to be renounced or dismissed altogether.
I am said by the books of chronology to be so young, yet why then does youth's effervescent brogue continually evade my soul's tongue? For like the serpent was for forbidden fruit, the devil's advocate I've become, bearing a countenance of lachrymose seduction-a sad, silent selling out indeed. Having taken a vow of supernal poverty, the devil's advocate I've become. And I am such a poor, poor dear, for there is, more often than not, far too much adherence here. And like the Fall was for Mortalkind, the Saviour's cause I have shunned, bearing a soul of eternal pilgrimage. Having accepted a barter of apostasy, the Savour's cause I have repeatedly shunned, and I am such a blind, blind seeker. Oh! you say, but what an eloquent speaker! Yet even as my words flow like the font of a universal river of dreams, my heart, I fear, is caught in a dam, a lone piece of firewood that once served its purpose quite well in the making of some nobleman's last supper.
I will not budge, for the very forces of Nature, it seems, are against me. I suppose I must just wait for some other forlorn soul to come along and set me free with a good swift boot! But must I wait and thus forfeit my fate to the inept hands of yet another as it has been since my first fit and wail? For what comparison is to be made between myself and those who covet and seize this feeling of empowerment I proclaim to be in lack of? For like the hunter who is guided to his prey by its mortal sap tracks, so too have I, continuing on a travail back to the same moot point as I foolishly seek the derision of the Past's scourges and wounds, some faintly visible scars and others, vicious, oozing welts all too apparent to this shy naked Soul's eye.
Yet my heart remains fully clothed within the man-made yet ill-fitted materials of the Mind, as I am sold to the ravening merchants time and again, each new bid wrecklessly meandering into the red. And in debt I shall remain to the merciless creditors of conscience and self-providence until I have gained back what profit, lost at rebirth to the still, barren womb of Apathy. But necessity is a jealous lover and so it goes: Here is my story. And I hope, despite their insufficiency that my words reach you. This is a brief yet scenic sojourn through a mortal mind's eye of gain and loss, of the giving and the taking, of solidarity and disunity, of harmony and of discord, of ecstasy and apathy, of love and of hate. This is a story of both the genteel and the barbaric. This is a story of yearning and of evasion, of the sensual and the sexual, of fear-of the fear of fear. Yet most humanly of all, this is a story of loneliness, an ache and pang which runs so abysmally deep within us all that it is perhaps the Demiurge behind all happenstance manifested within any human journey and its retelling.
This is to be a journey through the inner landscape of a mortal human mind, unabridged, unencumbered by facade and convention in all of their glorified rancour and paradoxical absurdities and petty tyrannies. This particular inner world of which I speak came to be played out long before me and is in actuality one which countless others have known of as well. A life lived in jest due to some abstract yet omnipotent and ever omnipresent force which simply cannot be justifiably or adequately summed up with mere surface calculations. Is it a fear of losing the soul? Is it a fear of becoming beyond our control? Or is it a fear of just how deific indeed, we already are? Oh me of little faith, in others' heedless, callused hands I have placed-far too much. And for those who have failed me with their lack of what I cannot give to myself, I ask only one thing: Give me Truth. For she has taught me so many things, humbling my wretched, blind soul to continual illumination and blessed absolution. She has also taught me many things which I wish to go back to not knowing. For I fear, most of all, God being eternally exiled from the dyphoric halls of this devil-mind as I am left to flounder, a ghost of a shell, nameless but certainly not blameless.
What can cause such madness and disintegration in one weary, humble and lone soul? As I now speak, to this question I know of only one answer: Fear. A fear many know of but few dare reveal to themselves or others. It is a fear that grits its teeth at me every day in the mirror, threatening to consume mind, body and soul in one gluttonous swallow. Some fear merely taunts. And some fear hides beneath the guise of all things physically-affecting and effecting which we try with an enthusiasm unsurpassed and a witful dexterity unrivalled to craft into some spurious raison d'etre. My fear warns. And it warns of a reason-for-being not being enough. My fear is often greater than my love. My hate is lesser than yet oftentimes the direct product of my fear. And what of my joy? My joy is an incalculable integer. It does not commute. What shall follow, as with all human stories, is an account of Heaven and an account of Hell. Yet most of all, it is an account of the Hades we so often must descend into, to make way, for The Final Ascension.