Tower of Brahma - 36 - forgetful faust

06/26/07

I don't know if this happens with every deal with the devil, but I remembered that I sold him my soul only afterwards. Roughly about two years later, I'd imagine 666 days if I did the math, I find myself recalling the details of my swap with Satan himself.

At age thirteen I'm setting fire to plastic letters stolen off a display sign from the temple across the street. My friend and I are smoking cigarettes and sipping whiskey as we light up the plastic over a small pit as part of our adolescent backyard conjuring of Mephisto.

No dark display makes itself known but perhaps that's when the door was open. From there my life fell apart. My grandmother died, someone killed himself on my birthday, and I became a bastard who didn't care. I was numb, a soulless simpleton tumbling down a path of self-destruction. I slipped into a Hell of my own making, masochistically flogging my guilt with psychological torture.

So, two years ago I said I'd give whatever was left for a way out. He gave me words for the shred I had left. I'd have enough words for 64 chapters. Enough words to end it all and to do it right this time. We shook hands, I signed in blood, and off he went to the Underworld.

I prayed for the stories to come and release me, somehow redeem my unworthy self. I, like every sucker who swaps with the Devil, tried to use the gift I had to undo this deal. I exorcised my demons with symbolism and pleaded with my passion to get me in his good graces.

Maybe it all started before this. Back to a time I don't recall. A primal, power play where I die before innocence is lost and brought back before judgment of my eternal soul. These words simply must save me for they are all I possess.