Replica of the Devil

A harshly pointed look into the distance and revealing a not-so-distant understanding of a legendary creature hidden beneath the construction of an architectural mind like mine. Opening the door to everything that mocks me and feeds me subconsciously, because, pretentious as I am, I believe in the qualities of my thoughts, so it’s only logical that the devil in me feeds on the remnants of himself. Let it go, a matter of decency. First of all, my goodwill. Facing consciousness, horizontally directed toward insanity, a blot of gray cells, and I pretend not to know what it is all about. Some very unusual, even exciting, overtures, in a fixed position that cause a diversion, and at the same time a static that I don’t normally possess. It doesn’t work for me to explain what kind of mechanism drives me because the parts are too long insulated, so the rusted ones are hard to operate. But I’m functioning. They produce what is right by whoseever rules is right, so I shrug and repair those a little more dismantled and a little less broken. I’m not trying too hard. Why would I? I’m conscious of the reason they are what they are. For a long time now, I’m in perfect harmony with the anomalies of my imperfection and boldly enter into polemics with a replica of the devil who would pick up the remaining ashes from a metal casket stuck among the ribs. I shatter myself with elemental logic that would break down thoughts and concepts into their constituent parts as if the devil understood how the architectural mind could analyze. It’s even confusing to me sometimes to understand its structure and how it is from the perspective of a wide variety of aspects of concrete forms, how it takes place. That’s why probably I can differentiate between the replica and the real devil in me.

Psychological representation and decomposition of its whole within the representation of elements- the opposite term-synthesis. And the dominance of the whole always amazed me, even though I am just half-human, half-machine in the multiple spaces of surviving fascism in some of its metaphorical ideology. I lay out some conceptual features of my human form and analyze all the dimensions and measurements of the space we are. In the relationship of changes in behavior and changes in a given moment, I don’t resist the devil too much to take what he came for because I experienced the anamorphosis long after our first encounter. I became an object that, in some twisted, extraordinary way, depicts the anatomy of its ancestral form. And as such, my mind is often at odds with the irrational architecture of something that only I could call anthropometry, thinking that human bodily dimensions can derive into units of measurement and standards for building objects in themselves. Of the roughest and most solid materials, with the considerable simplification of appearance, because everything that is too overcrowded draws attention to the abstract evocations of the unreal in us, and can be very real when it wants to be. I use unconventional methods and arrange a space where the devil and I will have a meaningful conversation about his plan to take back something he’s missing. And to try, with his deep, hollow eyes, to shed my steel remorse on the temples, squeezing me as if thoughts would leak out before him, and break me into somewhat unstable atoms of which I’m made by destroying something that has tripled inside me to the monumentality.

I understand it is unclear to him how someone who’s overly aware of his robotic existence can’t break. Demystifying myself, it has never been easier for me. Even worse (or rather, how to whom), I look at him hollowly in the eye, and confuse him with my autodidact phenomenon. An unknown term that is in absolute contrast to the abstract in this magnificent moment of mutual assimilation. Is this harmony consistent with my planned accommodation? How will he identify me in a territory that is foreign to him, and yet convinced that everything is available to him and that he overcomes human urges, swallowing them and enjoying them? His food, his need. My needs are cut down by the edges of the walls I build. A superior perfectionist. My collages of half-empty giving are beyond the reach of the whole picture of humanity, so I can’t consider myself only a figure of flesh and blood. I smell of iron and metal, my bones don’t cling to me, for a long time, they are just the starting point that unites the various and often contradictory elements, leading them to the culmination of a cataclysm in the devil across from me. The contrast of the living creature and the dead creature represented in the dependent variable in this cold intermediate. Who mocks who? Who wins who? The thought experiment of a seemingly complicated creation of the mind carried out on the ethereal mind of an astral projection in the form of a devil. One who thinks that, like all other mortals, it’s important for me, for Christ’s sake, an important victory, so he struggles to pull the ideological rug under my feet to breathe the essence of anything human I might otherwise possess. Farce and delusion, delusion and misinterpretation at the half of a man like me. My mechanism is self-destructive, but it also regenerates itself. I’m just an object that doesn’t care what role it plays today or tomorrow. The fact is, he can’t function without me. Vice versa. Is it? Trivial topic to unravel.

But he studies me and analyzes my thoughts in detail, desperately wanting to bypass my consciousness that terrorizes him, trying to get some trick up his sleeve. Too bad he is so weak, says my “architectural determinism,” awaking a provocation and anger at that huge, dark phenomenon in my isolated place of ideal proportions that, by mere coincidence, are equal to perceptions of it. Again, I’m focusing on what is this all about because the eternal mind doesn’t know about concentration when it comes to a particular term, does it? And a man’s mind is overcome when he confronts the inconceivable. Well, I also call the devil a term but admiring the determination he has. To break me. Pick me up and chew me out. But being selfish to the core, I can’t let myself be taken by something that doesn’t respect itself enough to give up when it knows it’s losing, just as I can’t rip off part of my flesh. That selfishness defines me. I take pride in it when I think a little harder. On the other hand, going back to the thought of what’s human in me, I give myself a chance to act properly. How do I allow him to feed himself? Stranded nails and stone swords instead of fingers. Pieces of glass from my eyes will reach him, the rusty tubes of my bones jamming in his throat. A lung is full of mortar that served to connect something that seemed to me to be emotion-related. My memory betrayed me. The sand of my time in the hourglass that once represented the brain will smother him. He will melt from a temperature so high with which I raise the cold I defend against the world. I can’t help but wonder what will happen when all my pieces tear him down the way they assemble me. In any case, what kind of “man” would I be if I tried to kill my guest who considers me a prey? Silence. I think the time for visits is over.

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