The Beast  roars.

Whence does it come?

Has it… always been here?

When the lights became bright, and the sounds became stronger, when I felt …high….for a while (and never, never since) – what was it?

 

I opened a door, and let something in. It came into the space made from neglect that was blind to love,

and furnished it, after a fashion.

At least it seemed more comfortable: I didn’t need to shiver alone in a corner any more (or so it seemed).

 

And then from the depths of this self-induced agony (unsurprisingly) it offers

the antidote to the panic,

the way out,

the escape.

What is it this time? Hmmm?

Will it be the drug you smoke or drink or watch or read or fuck?

Will it be sleep (the cleanest one) which offers pure rest, but is filled with the mockery  of uncertain dreams?

Will it be something that I eat which will change  my brain like a drug?

Perhaps a useless conversation, an aimless movement.

These things, in truth, take me away from what is real, what is present, beyond the nightmares I habitually invent to torture myself.

 

The beast takes almost everything else, but what does everything matter, next to love?

Or at least its palest substitution, the prostitution of life that is the feeding of the drug.

I thought I was feeding on the drug, but really, it is the drug that feeds. I am the fuel, I think.

 

Now I stand outside.

I remain gaunt, skeletal, dressed in rags, pushed further away from what I imagine is the warm fireplace burning at the centre…I bring the (fuel) and I think:

 

‘Surely! This time it  will let me in! After all, if I stopped bringing (the fuel) it would be as cold and miserable as I!’

 

But the priceless gifts I bear are snatched from my hand as the door is opened – I get the faintest whiff of warmth from within, a glimpse of red brocade, a sense of spice in the air, of comfy couches…then the door slams abruptly in my face…I am already wondering how soon I can bring more (fuel) to the door – maybe, surely! Next time I will be admitted, forever, for good.

 

What else is there to do?

 

At least that one whiff, that one promise, seems better than the interminable cold and loneliness that assails every moment.

 

And no wonder it smells so sweet, that the fire burns so warm. It is a bonfire of my heartfelt dreams, of my yearning for love, of my desire to be free…