Living with Satan

I’ve been living with Satan. You’ve been living with that shitty little voice inside your cranium, that’s in constant war with the nature of your entire being. You’ve been living with Satan, Satan who destroys the tiniest little spec that fabricates your very soul, because Satan just doesn’t like it. Satan means having a black hole. Satan is folding into yourself and self-destructing because you’re not good enough. Not for yourself, not for your relatives, not for your friends, not for your teachers, not even that stranger, or that fellow. Satan is who we allow ourselves to be, right after we fall apart and let ourselves completely perish, like it isn’t beyond the norms.

I’m living with Satan, too.

And, it’s sick. It’s so beyond sick to look at myself in the mirror, and despise the deepest depth of my interior, and the smallest detail of my exterior. It’s disturbing, disorienting, and disgusting to hate myself to the extent that I would detach myself from my body if I could, hope my inanimate be sold to a bunch of wild boars, and be reincarnated into sand. It’s upsetting, to feel so worthless that I’ve come to think that my death would only affect a quarter of a half, and I’m tired of myself. I’m exhausted.

And no, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or pity, or to vent. I’m saying this because I’m so bored of keeping the world from how I feel, because of some ghastly fear of judgment and ridicule, and worrying about whether people would care or not, or if it’s even important. Because, Goddammit, it doesn’t have to be important in order for it to be said. It doesn’t have to make sense. If I find freedom in my words, then hell yes, I am going to tell the whole damn world.

This reminds me of the teardrop and the autumn leaf case. I was writing the prologue to this story that I’ve come to realize I have no faith in. It goes like this:

Rainfall had always fascinated me. It wasn’t just the ecstasy of the shutter, and the beauty sourced in it; that sound when a hundred thousand raindrops meet gravel in an instant; it wasn’t just the sudden change of atmosphere; Not the enveloping thousand yards of rejuvenation that’ll always hold me captive. No, it was more than that. It was how, in one second, you look out your window and you see the sidewalk, the road, and a sum of impatient cars. But, in that next instant, a simple drop meets gravel, the universe releases its grip and bam! The wet curtain falls, and there it goes: The impatient cars, the road, and the sidewalk, all a million miles apart….

… And that was the magnificence of these darn drops: They soar, levitate, aim, and fire, landing at one direct position, all at once! As if they were even destined to fall right on my window, or the sidewalk, or the road, or the impatient cars. As if they knew exactly where they belonged.

And how I wish I were a raindrop. Because, you see, I am anything but the glory of it all. Unlike rainfall, I fall, then I tumble, then I scatter, and then I fall again: I am the darkest autumn leaf.

And the darkest autumn leaf, I certainly am.

And no, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or pity, or to vent. I’m saying this because I’m so bored of keeping the world from how I feel, because of some ghastly fear of judgment and ridicule, and worrying about whether people would care or not, or if it’s even important. Because, Goddammit, it doesn’t have to be important in order for it to be said. It doesn’t have to make sense. If I find freedom in my words, then hell yes, I am going to tell the whole damn world exactly how I feel.