I Found The Devil in My Heart
I have death on my mind, as I am sure many do; but why?
Why do some of us adhere to the feeling of death more than others?
Death seems to follow me like a sour taste upon my tongue. I feel it, taste and I can't ignore it. I have no true desire to call upon death early. Nor do I wish it to find anyone I love. But there are those moment, when a cloud sinks upon my chest and I feel heavy.
That is when death is most apparent, most prominent in my eyes. Its quiet voice, softly stranding along the angles of my heart. Caressing with a strange comfort of peace, asking me to walk with it.
A couple years ago, I would have listened.
I would have poured us drinks and conversed till everything felt miserable and useless. Till death sounded like an answer for everything. We are all going to die, so what is the point in going on?
Many times I would ask death that question. But I would get no answer back, only a lull of silence and a grin upon death's cold face. Its teeth crooked, jagged, as if it had been gnawing on stone for days. Its eyes would stare from the shadows of my thoughts.
Piercing the darkness like dull lights in the distance at an end of a tunnel. It would feel warm for a moment, but quickly turn cold. My body would shiver and I would find myself crying out for help. But there was no one, only my solitary heart and my contorting mind stood by me.
Both just as meager as I. My heart, bleeding on the floor crying with dense misery. Its rhythm muffled by the raving thoughts of my mind. Irking my body like the scratching of nails to a chalk board.
It was a gruesome sight to be hold and death, would watch, calling out my name with a comforting pitch. Lingering in the fears of my heart as I would stand frail to the wind. Finding nooks and crannies in which it could fit.
But why, why would I walk toward such a scene that bears only the consequence of murder?
Why do we do this?
I believe, I did this because I understood little of myself. I held only to the broken pieces of me like a mad scientist to his failed theory. Hoarding them till the floors are leeched of any use but storage. I believe I hung to death so often because I would no listen to myself, my heart.
I ignored my calls of strength for they were difficult. Difficult to face the truth of my mistakes, my need to let go. For much comfort is there in the familiar. So, why not let another guide you, even if that which guides you is just as lonely?
It is easier that way, two familiar souls walking hand in hand through the bleak misery of suffering. Each extending a hand, exchanging our burdens when times became too arduous. But I failed to see, was what lent its hand, was not seeking to help.
But to trap, to take hold and absorb me as another for its collections. For the darkness that called to me, for so long, I thought was something else than myself. But as I started to dig, uncover the voice that wept along side me.
I found the voice was I, a reflection of the past that cried out for me. To relieve the agony, so that it would not be alone. But even then, I dug deeper, I found more. I found bones, blood, filth, scattered through out my heart.
I found a chamber deep in the forbidden holes of my soul. There, in the deepest chambers of all, I found a beast of horns. Gnawing away on the walls of my heart like a rat starved. I called to it and when it turned, it had the same gnarled teeth as death.
So I found in this insufferable exploration of myself, was not death, but the devil himself.
Do you think death and the devil are the same?
Do you think we all have a devil within us?
Reach into your heart and disperse it into the words of, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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