Every so often I find myself making yet another attempt at reconciliation with my inner demons, but my ambition never quite comes to fruition. There is a sort of propriety in that kind of failure, in attempting to claim the title of spiritualist. I don’t have much in the way of wisdom, heh, amusing thought. No, but what I do have, however, is a host of ghosts with whom I continuously find myself having to parley. At least they’re willing to talk, to negotiate, unlike the demons. There it is, the truth. I’m neither dispossessed or enlightened, nor have I entered the Void. I am in no way unique in this regard, everyone carry with them some kind of monster.
Monstrous, where the humane fails to persevere it will endure. It is the predatory instinct, the cut-throat impulse that is anathema to those who proclaim honest, human decency. Quite amusing, considering that everything monstrous is of human origin or human invention. Perhaps inherent in the very word monster is the association with Evil. An assumption not necessarily wrong, but certainly hasty. In the face of great peril, monsters are what keeps us alive. They are the frighteningly overwhelming sensations that we, in our cradled and overprotected way of life, have become afraid of. They’re the unseen hands grasping at us from the shadows. It is the loss of control that frightens, the true face of the Monster is our own weakness – our inability to let go.
So I feed my monsters daily, I entertain my demons, and converse with my ghosts. I do so to aw knowledge them, and through acknowledgement they are set free – and I can let go. I can let go of worry, I can let go of trouble, and I can let go of pain. I can do so with confidence, because I’ve realised what there is to gain, by feeding your monsters.
Tranquility, serenity, peace of mind.