The Beast

Oct. 15, 2020
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Inside my mind, I created the best me I could. I garnished it with all of those things which I wished I had and I hung it up neatly upon the wall next to all of the accolades which I wish that I had as well. Then I took a step back, to see this new found thing that I had created.


It was disgusting.


This thing was not me, but the things I wanted to be- In one hand it had a filthy cigarette, and in the other it held a wilting rose. A hopeless romantic, with no regard for his own life. While I loved the idea of the creature splayed across the walls, I noticed that it was not happy. Even with all of the things that I had provided it could not satiate its deepest fetishes. It wanted nothing but flesh, flesh by the pound. Its teeth were stale, and its eyes were fiery.


The beast I had created was not happy.


What does one do with unhappy things? I decided to put it out of its misery. I grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen drawer, albeit ironic for myself, and placed its serrated edge against its rugged flesh. It raised a cigarette to its lips and then, with a puff, dropped it to the floor.


Sanguinity painted the walls, and the shadow of its body could be seen within the dust which it had accumulated after decades of hanging there- waiting to be cut loose; waiting to wait no more. When I had slain the beast which once laid so nicely upon the wall, I picked my own feet up from off the floor and placed them below my knees.


To those who believe that the most exciting things in life come through those things which we can control, I can attest to quite the opposite. Relive the moments of speeding down the highway, listening to a song with a message and a rhythm. You're not the driver, but a passenger with no say. You roll down the window, even though frost has already begun its siege upon your tepid bones. The wind blows through your hair, as you spin across wild landscapes which three-piece-suits have gagged and built into submissive sex slaves. Pavement covering their wild streaks, and much-too-tall buildings where their own dreams should have been.


This feeling is electric- and to feel anything but electricity, is to feel nothing at all.
And after all, shouldn't we be grateful for the pain of icy breath? We should be happy that we have the ability to feel pain at all- in all of its forms. So never dread the rain for fear of wetness, or the storm for fear of destruction. Just be glad that you are able to feel despair at all.


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