The former meaningless;
the latter too sharp.
They are me but I don't recognize them.
They have been let loose
and have grown to unprecedented heights,
fell to unprecedented depths.
They threaten to consume me.
They are eating me up slowly since long.
I can't trust them to become complacent.
Questions. Memories. Feelings. Fantasies.
Cruel romanticism. Crude reality.
Blanket of darkness. The stubborn flicker of light from afar.
The serpentine swirl of red-hot naked emotions, the labyrinth of internal dialogue that you know will only lead to a bottomless pit and the lethargy that prevents you from shutting your mind up and letting you breathe...all lose their potency when exposed in the form of black and white.
They look human, and hence vulnerable. I can now touch them, my inner demons. I can now tame them and turn them into another one of my ramblings that my readers would read, and.perhaps like. I depersonalize them by turning them into fodder for a writer's work. A work of art. I turn my enemies into raw material for my finished work of art, to be examined, turned up and down and even dissected, and at last perhaps appreciated, by my readers.
I start playing music. My demons cry out. I leave my laptop on the table and take out a letter from my drawer. I sit on the edge of my window. I take in the words of the letter. It's the first love letter my love gave me. The breeze and the love oozing out, infuse life into me. I lift my eyes up when a drizzle starts to make my arms wet. I smile.
My demons have been demolished.
They will be reborn.
They will be demolished again.
A writer's tale. Old one.