The golden monkey perches on my shoulder at a jaunty angle and whispers sweet somethings into my shell; acerbic poison drips from his maggot tongue. He has a hard on full of malicious spunk for my ear. He knows the words that I dread and the words I long to hear – I’m a receptacle to the villainous bile he spurts across the frozen waste of my heart. He’s a long term vice, as addictive as smack, and harder to ditch; he’s part of my fabric – my DNA.
I’ve been on the outside so long it looks like the inside to me, but it’s cold, colder than hell. Far beneath my ice, in the filthy gloom, blacker than midnight, darker than the soul – I glory in the pain inflicted on the self. I count the strokes of my flagellation and the degrees of my abomination and cry foul, but – there’s a but in my throat.
I have always been the victim of my own machinations. I always gave in to the blunt and vicious side of my nature. I feed that hump monkey with my bitter delusions and confectionary lies. I’m not a victim, I’m a volunteer. The sickness of this world is fear; fear of disclosure, fear of truth. Creeping fear is my enemy, but my fear will set me free. Fear is the prime motivator, the scent of excitement, the stench of dread apprehension; take a little whiff and he’ll make your wildest dreams seem true.
My cloak of invincibility, my masquerade of masculinity, are driven by the shameful quirt of fear. The whole public edifice hangs on one tarnished nail – the threat of exposure, the disgrace of discovery. Fear is the touch of death, my most secret paramour. She has driven me to the contortions and exploits that map the surfaces of my life, but the hidden depths are his alone – she is Empress of the interior. My internal story is one of revolution, of my struggle against her tyranny. I’ve learned throughout the years that even tyrants fall, but the odds are stacked against it.