Prose

Give away your soul and don’t be ashamed

How fast does the person sell their soul to the devil? He lures us out of our own body, provokes us and plays our movements like we are puppets, claiming he doesn’t exist. He takes us more and more, takes over our existence and changes his form, every time. Looking at the changes which we’re anticipating, we unconsciously become susceptible to everything, to every change, every procedure. With an unfounded assertion that we’re indeed ourselves, we’re merely surviving. Then that same devil pulls us away, so we lose control. He controls us again. He possesses us repeatedly. We are not in our own bodies anymore, screaming, scratching the surface of what we call a mortal body. We hit a mirror with a fist without looking at it, avoiding every eye contact with a person on the other side. In the end, we always find ourselves blaming others. We are afraid of the mirror as if we don’t have a reflection. But we do. It’s furious and terrifying. It pushes us and breaks us into pieces. So which peace do we first pick up to put ourselves back together? Because the truth is bitter, we don’t know how we actually look. Who are we from the inside? What kind of devil drags us through his fingers and changes us? Is that the one we’re hopelessly drawn to while waiting for so-called changes toward something better or is it just another saying about bad performance? An excuse for postponing the dialogue with ourselves? Or is the monologue the only thing we can do, incapable of finding the right words and challenging the paranoia in which we’re spinning, similar to the hank, that’s heavy and perplexedly? Is the dissatisfaction we feel becoming a pleasure when we commit a crime? A crime against ourselves, unaware of who directs this thriller. Ignorant about details, only knowing we have done something wrong to ourselves, to others, belonging to anyone, someone’s, but belonging to no one. Suddenly, the adrenaline strikes us so hard, so the adrenaline we become. We are aiming for something that we can call the horizon because we are realistic, we are self-made, we don’t want to see the end. The most significant goal is within us. All it takes is to get to the starting point, to touch our souls if they still exist inside us. To touch its core or to completely disperse it until nothing’s left. Otherwise, we’ll just go downward, with no ending till the end of the abyss. To the ground and below. Rotten or damaged, it doesn’t matter. We powerlessly shrug our shoulders before everything that crushes us and suffocates us. We stand up the same, immune to the pain and psychologically ready to strike back twice stronger. But the devil doesn’t feel the punches, he feeds from them, we know that very well. We are damn incapable of changes, small, yet sufficient. We are so small, so insignificant in front of him that we run away from all potential approaches to save ourselves. We aim for the same way of life. We pray to God, but we offer ourselves to the Devil. Consciously or unconsciously, we become all we didn’t want to, and we don’t ask ourselves what we want. We are hypnotized by something inside. That’s why we’re slaves with freedom of movement. Because we’re deceitful, we turn into demons, depending on something much worse. We laugh without a smile on our faces and look at each other without feeling that we have a pulse. Walkers. Passengers through the hologram of one professional, so we make jokes on his account, pretending to be hurt when we’re actually just transparent, the light shines through us, but the darkness overtakes us, revealing the priceless truth: “We can be better.” But with his latex gloves wrapped around our womb, it’s hard to stay under anesthesia. All we can do is to hold our breath and beg for liberation. And that’s unacceptable to us, it appears. As a source of our problems, we blame the excessive imagination, thinking we are much bigger than his presence, while he swears to remove our traumas carefully. Everything has to be sterile, he says, while uses the rusty pair of pliers to take out the last parts of the people left of us. That shouldn’t be us, small and invisible. We look through the pierced fluorescent light on us and suddenly the only thing we want to is to be reborn as more complex beings. Not grown enough for the devil, to be freed from the prison of emotions and sanity that only represents us to the world like we’re on the exhibition, naked and exposed before people, so they can take what they want. But his hands are the ones that take us away and deprive us. We are the volunteers that give away interrupted dreams only to wake up on time for the payment. Are we too alive for you, an aseptic predator? Do we need to be under sedatives, like sacks of meat under your inky fingers? It doesn’t matter we don’t want to surrender, does it? The eyes are smoke-colored while he’s leaning the mask over our noses (Sooner or later we will have to breathe again.). But it will always be the same, as long as we give away our souls to the devil, and we aren’t ashamed of that.

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