Is There A Demon Lover In The House?Submitted by DaBeast at 2009-12-05 01:57:28 EST
Rating: 1.81 on 21 ratings (21 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
Demons evolve. Ever notice that? We're born with tiny baby demons writhing and wriggling inside our burgeoning little minds. The first demon we're introduced to is the one that appears when mommy leaves the room. I'd be willing to bet that that's the first obstacle on the road to madness. The first time she leaves and turns out the lights after, that's the first time we're introduced to the demon known as Darkness and it leaves a brand on our psyche that follows us every second thereafter, a stalker and a thief and a shadow that we carry along like loose change rattling around in our tiny noggins.
As age brings change for us, so too for our demon counterparts. The lie of religion can not hide the truth of honest observation but even that might find itself in agreement with the assertion that demon-kind evolves and it is therein the fundamental fear that drives religion as cattle before the horseman. Does that tentative agreement then invalidate the assertion? Can a lie contain even a smidgen of truth? Well, yes. The best lies do. And no, those pants don't make your ass look like the Hindenburg. Need some prime real estate in the Everglades? I hear it's lovely this time of year.
I've heard it said, and I'll paraphrase it here to keep with the analogy, that the greatest artists are those that hold within them the greatest demons. That genius does not spring from happiness but from tragedy. That if the artist can overcome his demon, that he is a very lucky soul. But if the audience is lucky, then that artist will be in thrall to that demon shadow for all of his (probably short) life. As a species, we distrust happiness and can not truly empathize with it but sorrow, grief, loneliness, and despair are things we know, trust, and have come to love. We see the Darkness far more clearly than we can even perceive the Light for it lives in our very core and is at the heart of our every action, thought, word.
And whom here would choose to hear of their friend's triumph over the story of their greatest defeat? Not a one even though many would deny it and heatedly. Look to the television, the media, our movies, our comic books, listen to the music. We wallow in the shallow excess of our neighbors misery. Our every memorable hero carries bound within him a broken soul and, indeed, can not seem to become heroic without some crushing agony a stain upon his every heartbeat. Good news doesn't even headline at noon anymore but words like "war" and "death" and "murder" garner instant respect and attention. Some would ask what that says about us as a species and I say that if it took you this long to get the message, then why not place your head back up your ass and save me the trouble? I really have better things to do.
The demons, though, those interest me quite a bit. Of all things that makes every human like every other human is that they are riddled with demons. We begin with simple ones and they evolve as do we, bound together down into the very DNA, their steps dancing along the strands, a graceful dark tango. Some demons are like some other demons but they are not. Like ugly cousins, their features reflect one another in disturbing fashion but they will never be truly the same. Some of my demons bear my mother's face, some my father's, among others. Unless your parents look a lot like mine, then your demons are different than mine. If they do, then we're probably related. I'll shoot you when I kill the rest of those fuckers at the next family reunion. See you soon!
Now, it occurs to me that there might be some angsty, teen-aged, acne-riddled emo/goth/whutever digging on this right now. Stop reading this immediately, log off of the computer, go find your mother, and slap her in the mouth for me. She dared allow you to devolve to this state and she must immediately be punished. Email me her phone number and I'll find time for her in my schedule. Oh, yeah, and go find a daddy to administer a whole shit-ton of ass kicking on your lazy, pasty ass. Quit that crybaby shit or I'll give you a reason to cry.
Sniveling little bags of pus. Wine about your lack of an iPod, moan about how your mommy's a whore, despair over the fact that your daddy is an alcoholic. Then please don't mind me when I literally gag you with a spoon after I remove it from your momma's ass. Grow the fuck up, grow a pair, and stop your puling, sanctimonious bitchery. If you got assfucked, it was because you let yourself get assfucked. Quit whining about it already!
You don't wine about the real demons, anyway. The real ones, you keep those bottled up, safely away from prying eyes. The real demons are always a weak point, a soft spot, a chink in the armor and it could be used against you. Think about it, you've seen someone use someone's demon against them, even if it was only in a soap opera. Put the bon-bon down, Peg. Find out what haunts a person and you've just found their windup key. Turn it and watch them run. Fun when you're a teenager but now, it's a yawn.
My demons became jaded, cynical, careless. They were old and their power had diminished and no new ones had come to take their place. Without that joie de vivre, I suffered. I never knew that I depended upon those demons so much until that moment of realization. As they waned, so I waned. As their cynicism grew, so did mine. Yet I am not where that jaded crust bucket of age originated - it first existed inside the demons. In the end, I surmised, those demons were not misshapen reflections of myself.
I am a misshapen reflection of my demons.
They do not live inside my soul. They are my soul. They're yours, too. Think about it. Think back to your childhood, your adolescence, your formative years. Now, take a piece of paper or a text file and list all of the good things that happened to you during that time. Then list the bad things for the same period.
I won't ask which list is longer. I already know.
It's easier to recall the bad things, the hard things, the awful, dark things. Even if the edges of them become fuzzy, the clear, cold heart of the bad things seems to beat eternal in our minds. Those are our demons and we allow them to savage our psyche and gorge themselves upon our souls and, in a way, that pain is addictive. You can draw strength from that pain and even sustenance, if need be because you know it was real. I've met people that have tried to whitewash their demons and deny their existence. I feel sorry for those people because I've never met a genie that couldn't get out of its bottle eventually. When their demons escape, they will be very, very hungry.
My demons, though, had grown fat and lazy. They forgot about evolution.
Ah, but that's changed, yes. There are some new demons in town, the dust is disturbed, and I can feel their dark eyes upon me, see the glint of them in the corner of the room. If I turn off the music and remove the headgear I'll hear the rasp of their breath and feel the cool rush of it icing down the nape of my neck. They're hungry and gleeful and young and they think they're ready.
But really... I don't think they can be, not truly.
I'm older now, stranger now, stronger and weaker at the same time and now, I think I can take them.
One thing's certain: the outcome should be interesting. If only because I'm hungry, too.