Demons, A Personal Study
Made using images by OpenClipart-Vectors & Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
It’s 3am and the demons are awake.
That’s not a metaphor for the dogs barking from their crates in the living room, but that is also happening and the sound is sufficiently demonic. To be fair, I must give the dogs credit for waking first. Perhaps they were the trigger for the demons, though that hardly matters.
The demons live in my head. I would prefer if they found other habitation, but, alas, I have yet to learn any effective methods of eviction, leaving such methods, if they do exist, purely theoretical. The demons use the space as they please without a care for the house rules, neighbors, or property damage. This is particularly troublesome as their mayhem causes somatic ripples that are distracting at best and more often disruptive.
Presumably, that’s why they chose the head as their domicile — the connections. That’s what prevailing science says, anyway. Sorry, that was confusing. Science has nothing at all to say about my demons, but it does suggest that the brain is kind of the control center of a person (such as myself). All roads lead to the brain. It’s like if you lose a leg but you still feel it there, you know? Like the whole body lives in the brain somehow. Thus, the demons are attracted to all the shiny toys.
It might be nicer if the demons had jobs like most people. They must not need to eat. I have to assume they’re happily unemployed because they never seem to leave. Sometimes they’re quiet, and that’s nice, but more often than not they strum on my nerves like a walking bass line. I keep asking when the beatnik will take the mic.
That’s not a bad joke, but the tune my residents play is far too frantic to feature in a poetry slam or comedy club or jazz scene or anywhere else with a chill vibe. I would go so far as to call it distinctly un-chill, and, in this case, I have evidence to support my point — I would never yell SHUT THE FUCK UP! at a poetry slam, comedy club, jazz scene or anywhere else with a chill vibe.
I’m not crazy or anything. It’s not like they talk back to me. They do talk at me and I in return talk at them, but there has been no evidence of understanding on either end of the shouting match. As you can tell, evidence is a scant find in this circumstance.
Thus, I have ceased observation alone and have begun research. The problem with looking into something is language. First off, you need to be able to read. Annoying, yes, but for a lot of us that skill developed by the happenstance of procedural pedagogy and we can conveniently skip this step.
Sadly, even if you possess the ability to convert written glyphs to understood concepts, you must learn to ask the right questions to the right books. It’s a real hassle. Often, the most useful books hide their assistance behind indecipherable vocational nomenclature. It is truly regrettable that one will not find a book titled Step-by Step instructions to Evicted the Demon from your Brain, or Ten Ways to Protect Your Mind from the Pointed Tail of a Demon, Poised to Strike at Any Moment.
The process takes a lot out of me. Often, I learn more about potential origin stories for the demons: why they moved in, how they were born, how they grew. These make a fascinating distraction from the goal. One could spend years learning “what” in search of “why”. Understanding doesn’t solve anything. If you want actionable information, you have to rip and tear up what you find and then put it together with scotch tape and glue to make an image you can understand.
That’s how I figured out my mental denizens were demons in the first place. For the longest time, I just thought they were me! They aren’t, though. They just live in me and use a very convincing me-voice.
Despite a semblance of understanding, I don’t have an answer. Some say the demons can’t make you do anything, not even feel. Others suggest they can’t be evicted at all, like the foundation under a home. I’m beginning to wonder if they’ve always been here. Like, they’re a part of me, but still not me.
Ugh, there I go trying to understand again.
That’s what I keep bumping up against. My brain.
It sucks, dude. Sorry to get so casual, but it really does. This lump of meat in my head is straight-up designed to try and understand, so where does that leave me? So far as I can surmise, the solution is to cut the house breakers. Stop thinking. Or, stop interacting with the demons, at least.
Perhaps freedom lies beyond effort and past the fight. I need to accept the demons, let them do their dirty deeds, and ignore them as I would a bad neighbor with a lawn ornament fetish and a limited understanding of window sightlines.
The task is just as difficult. At least with a neighbor I can shut my windows and put on some noise cancelling headphones as they shout-sing Life After Love horribly off key (technology has made such convenient strides). It’s less simple with my mental residents.
“Sorry for all the rambling,” I say to the woman standing behind the pharmacy counter with ever widening eyes. They’re a lovely shade of hazel. “Really, I just need to know if you have any anti-demon nasal spray?”
From the Rift
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