Today I am at best industrial. My creative bone is hiding, curtailed and closeted in an attempt to distance itself from the sickness that threatens to overwhelm me should it wake from its restless slumber.
I am sick. I know this. I feel it in my loins, a dull ache like a migraine coming on, or the afterspark of a swift kick in the nuts. I need to do. To be. Doobie-doobie-do.
Inside my head, the monsters are lurking, fretfully walking trying to find a way out, onto paper, onto the screen. Ugly movie stars in the making. Yet I am somehow frozen, thick, struggling to fit into a headspace that will allow for the images to form, to become words, to gestate smoothly and not atrophy like an unused limb.
All good monsters have duality. Frankenstein, created from the dead and brought to life by ego, turns on his creator for the love spurned. Love and hate, life and death. The wolfman, part of his time spent in the world of the human, part spent in the meat of the wolf. Nyarlathotep, destroyer of worlds, yet cute and cuddly.
As humans, we identify with the duality. We all have the outer skin and the inner being that we hide, that nobody else sees, that inner monster full of warts and disfigurement, beads of shame and horror that we keep to ourselves lest we scare away the ones we love. Sometimes we're even successful.
I don't dance with demons, but sometimes I think they might dance with me. Monsters are okay, they're just misunderstood folk. I can walk in the darkness with the best of them, but I hate being used as a pawn. When you do what thou wilt, thou might just wake up with a bass in your ass.