Man and monster

Self-doubt has become the dominant emotion. The inability to think freely, without the bother of a ticking clock is getting under my skin. Maybe I chose the wrong life. Worked towards a dream that came true in the most horrifying ways possible. Maybe being listless and lost is just the way to be. Knowing oneself isn't an easy thing, especially if the understanding leaves you feeling more than slightly uncomfortable. And highly disoriented. Like a blindfolded dog, chained to a post running in loops but not knowing exactly where to. The feeling of making progress is always there, but it's a lie. Moving ahead must mean something according to people, it must count for a measurable value. Writing these words as therapy has always been the way but is it the right way forward? It used to seem so simple earlier on. When the Ghosts of Future Uncertain weren't haunting my every step. Now it all seems like a waste. Today everything seems worth the second letter in the word - zero. The utopia I promised myself is a pile of rubble and a strange shadowy figure is leering at me, laughing at me. Just to look him in the eye and take a solitary step is a task too hard for this faint heart. To pump blood into the limbs and lift one foot over the other. What is the worth of this after all, if the only thing I do is pay my time to see nothing in return? No end in sight that I would ever want to trundle towards? Only questions and shadows making friends with my past demons, giving birth to scheming and conniving monsters.

They make sleep seem impossible these days. Mostly because of the nightly demon I thought vanquished, has resurfaced with even more intricate fears at his disposal. Sometimes disguised as a mere axe, meant to cleave through my subconscious like a twig at the mercy of an over-enthusiastic gardener. When I steel my mind against the flashing edge he attacks with ingenious tools, both fragile and deadly. I can feel tiny pins poking holes in the all-too-imperfect armor and the effort of morphing my defenses for the changing harass works perfectly as a counter-measure for rest. But it's not the weapons that could ever defeat me. To some extent the tools are flawed by their very definition. They are things meant to serve a purpose, built for it and existing because of it. And when their purpose is unearthed, they are pitifully easy to counter. In all their complexity the weapons hold no court with the face of this grand beast. That ungodly face.

I cannot forget it. I cannot erase it. I cannot control it. For I am not sure it even exists. In the stead of a face, or rather as a face, this tattered-skin and bone-winged warrior has only layer upon layer of darkness. A mass of no discernible shape or logical purpose. Built wholly out of tar and ash flying up from the shoulders, hiding what can only be the eyes of the satyr. Yet as much as it is meant to, strangely enough, the unseen face doesn't frighten me. It keeps me up, yes. It pushes away my dreams and rest, true. But it does so because it intrigues me. It strikes a dark chord somewhere in my very soul that rings with foreboding. Enough of a death knell to spend lonely hours battling it. Enough of an echo to keep me coming back and stand in front of the demon himself, allowing him to strike me down.

Finally, a worthy opponent.