He can’t mind His own business. He can’t afford to. That’s His job and His function. He is created, for that very reason.
His immortal life, this earthly one, and countless others are intertwined and condemned to His bias judgment and invasive perusal. It’s difficult and taxing to be a once- prized, high esteemed angel, only to be destined and reviled as the eternal villain of human and other sentient beings. He stands alone, whereas the Creator has a league of light- bearing, unabashed, and a self-adoring army. He is one. One single, charcoal- stained adversary, against luminescent multitudes. It is difficult not to feel sadness and empathy for him, as he is fated to lose in the end…if there is an end.
He is a very serious- minded individual and can be the most hysterical being you will ever come across. He doesn’t have horns, a tail, or a pitchfork for his attire. He doesn’t dress in a business suit, nor is he preoccupied with fashion and trends.
No…the real Satan prefers being discreet and subtly royal in his supernatural appearance. He is a radiant energy aura that simultaneously disconcerts and puts one at extreme ease. He communicates through the gestures of nature, profound, mystical dreams, as well as manifesting himself in the physical world. You have to pay attention to what he says, and be cognizant when you’re in his presence. It is an error, not to do so.
People regard Satan as an immoral and depraved being. Far from it, he is one of the most puritanical entities you will ever come across. Sex disgusts him. Life disgusts him. I suppose, I should be fortunate that I am one of few human beings he ever visits. He is beyond the scope and understanding of anything mortal.
He ignites certain fires within me and is responsible for my adulthood success. He is neither demeaning nor condescending, and carries himself quite well, I might add. I am indebted to him for my success, but he has said with platinum conviction that he wants nothing in return…not even my soul. He knows souls do not exist and he believes the human spirit to be a very finite, mortal, and expendable thing. I’ve always called him ‘Uncle’ from the first time we met and he wished me to do so…that was the only payment he wanted in return for certain talents and gifts he endowed me with.
Satan is the intellect of all intellects, and that is his domain. He is the genius of all geniuses and the creative of all creatives- a genuine, charismatic supernatural who could be your best friend or your worst enemy. Just, try not to piss him off. It’ll make things worse for yourself, if you do. Lying to him is impossible. He understands and knows what you’re going to say with prescient accuracy…even before you utter the beginning of a single syllable. He sees what’s really on your mind and if you please him, the rewards are endless.
He doesn’t tolerate stupid people and he knows them when he meets them. He comprehends the shortcomings and drawbacks of the human race and other sentient races, as well. And, regales us with sardonic jokes. We are infinitesimal compared to Him.
Satan regards me as His personal emissary in this world, and when He mentioned this, it became a beaming honor. I was drunk with kaleidoscope ecstasy, that I should be a favored mortal of His. He confides in me knowing that I would never disclose any of His secrets to anyone. He instructs and I obey, for He is my ‘Uncle’ and unequivocal benefactor in this earthly realm. I must say that He is a non-sentimental being and quite matter of fact in his approach to life and love. Life, to Him is as meaningful as a gnat that lives only a day. It is temporary, expendable, and meaningless. An immortal knows nothing of love. To an immortal, He is the creator of life and love.
My face turns crimson red and my blood effervesces with dizzying verve when I am in Satan’s presence. It is no secret that He can make one’s spirit leap with immeasurable bounds, just from being in His company… from exalting fear, to drunken, orgasmic reveries-comingled with unnerving discomfort.
To Satan, dreams, hallucinations, illusions, and reality are interwoven together. There is no distinction for him. They function the same. They are the same. Where one might question his sanity and existence, Satan’s sanity is assured from the very fact of being an immortal with a plethora of varied ethereal and grounded experiences. He can dissect and segregate different realities, alternate states, or manufacture new plateaus of experiences for himself and sentient beings. If desired, in simultaneous fashion. It is his chief talent and something that he can be called an authority on.
He can give you anything and everything you desire, so long as you comprehend where He is coming from. He constructs and creates, as well as destroys and tarnishes. He is ever- present and knows no limits and knows no boundaries. He often says that when mortals step outside of a circle to gain perspective, they find themselves in another circle and loop…only to repeat the process until they expire from this world. ‘It is one of the chief causes of real insanity.’ Satan remarked to me one day.
Satan informs and dispenses sound practical advice. It is titillating to hear him speak and one’s lust and desire for the opposite sex can be realized if you heed what He has to say. He is not all sex and bacchanalian debauchery as myths and legends would make him out to be. On the contrary, although, He understands these things very well, He is beyond it…indifferent to it…not consumed by it as we are.
His personal views on God are pragmatic, at best. He views God as a creative scientist that conceptualizes. God is constantly creating things in more or less as trial and error. Nothing pleases or displeases God. He sees what works and what doesn’t. God has no human qualities and Satan said that our perception of God is enormously skewed…our understanding of Him- false. To Satan, God neither judges nor reprieves…He just creates and destroys and not for his own amusement, but for His own private and selfish design. God is an authority on all authorities and even Satan must bow before Him for it was God that manufactured Satan and knew in advance that Satan would be his adversary. God knew what Satan would really be like and what he would become. But, not even Satan understands God’s ultimate design or purpose for Him or even the world God created. Satan, often, wondered if God was bored and kept creating things to occupy Himself or if there was a point to all this creation. The main fall out between God and Satan was when Satan disagreed with God on his creations.
Satan… the real Satan is not allergic to Holy Water, Crosses, or Bibles-that is a myth we are taught in Church. On the contrary, he adores those items as it justifies his own existence.
“For there to be a good’, he once said, “There has to be an evil. I am that evil. I represent everything that lurks back in the unconscious mind. Every hidden desire and every adulterous thought is what symbolizes me. It gives me justice and validity to my own existence. It is a form of worship and praise in its own right. I pass no judgment, but he does.’ Satan said this with his finger pointing to the sky. ‘Now, who is the better being, He or I? He who creates, can destroy and destroy he does…with impunity… with recklessness… with absolution… with bias. I sit idly by and watch all these things occur and take issue with what he has wrought. This, this is our long-standing disagreement…our eternal feud… our own private, silent war. A war, eternally engaged where neither side wins. He has a habit of copying himself. He is constantly dissatisfied with what he does and remakes it…to make it better-when things are no better than before.”
“He must be very lonely and bored.” I said, one languid afternoon. Satan laughed.
“-Something like that. God is his own madman and cannot escape his own devices. It is an eternal loop with him chasing his own tail and a maddening, never ending tragic comedy.”
Satan fancied me ever since I stumbled across him when I was meandering in the dark woods late one night, not too far from my last home. It was frightening and disconcerting meeting him at first, but I gradually acclimated myself to this feeling, though not fully. It is always unnerving when being in his presence. He is considerate in his own way and will always send an announcement before he arrives. I prepare myself for these encounters, not knowing what to expect.
One, autumn, midnight the wind started howling violently outside my glass –paned, bedroom window. The rain came down in thick, hard sheets and the thunder began to boom with a deafening noise. I sharply awoke from my strange, dreaming slumber and I knew He was nearby. I became distressed, but managed to utter a few coherent words. “Sure, I know that Uncle…”I stammered, my voice becoming childlike, “-Let me go downstairs, where we can talk in private.” I got out of bed and hugged the satin covers against, my wife, Vivien, who was flat asleep. I crept downstairs, passing my reflection in the gold-figurine plated mirror hanging in the hallway. My reflection swirled in distortion and appeared bizarre and strange to me. I shook my tussled hair top and I sat down on the purple velvet couch. The rain began to pour once more and the thunder again began to crackle and snarl. “Your knowledge and wisdom are the only things I respect and admire. Everyone else pales in comparison. You don’t have to terrorize me with your authority. I know my place.” The wind began to die down. The rain softened and the thunder became minute, inaudible booms. I became more at ease and prepared myself for whatever was to come. He came to me in a benign, ethereal way, as was his custom and spoke, “What have you been looking for all these years?”
“Myself. “I slowly responded.
“After all these years, you still do not know who and what you are?”
“Everything I have accomplished and acquired is thanks to you. I know it was not entirely of my own efforts.” Satan nodded and agreed. “Things are going very well for you. Have you ever wondered why I did not ask for any real payment for your extraordinary success?”
“I have often wondered about that. You do not believe in souls, nor do you care about them as we are taught to believe. You want no worship or groveling. On the contrary, this disgusts you. You have no use for materialistic items. To be frank, I am bewildered as to why you have chosen me to become your personal emissary and confidante’. I am not the brightest of men. I know this. Nor, am I the most deceitful. I am stumped as to why you chose me.”
“I chose you”, Satan replied, “-because you were convenient.”
“That makes me feel very special.”
“Biting sarcasm will get you everywhere.”
“That’s pretty much all I have going for me now…that and your supernatural, poetic creativity that you have endowed me with.” Satan nodded his head again. “What do you think would have become of you were it not for our chance encounter?”
“Most likely dying from malnutrition and from being an unknown. Most poets don’t know how to make a living aside from selling their emotions and moods except by swooning a member of the opposite sex and these days; no one is really buying your feelings for a lady unless you’re outlandishly famous.”
Satan scoffed at this. “Real poets never pined for a long lost love! They pine mostly for themselves! The subject of the poem is really all about the self-absorbed poet!” This made unfathomable, glowing sense me.
“That applies to my situation.”
“Of course, it does.”
“As I’ve reiterated before, I was an ailing mediocre before your magical and invigorating breeze brushed up against me. After you entered my life, my poetry became genuinely sublime in this world. I don’t know whether to thank you or if I should have rejected your supernatural advances.”
“And why is that?”
“I wanted to believe that all of my work came from myself …that I was not another hack…that I could accomplish something of importance on my own. I guess I’m frustrated with my own genuine talent and that I have to rely on an outside, supernatural force to gain worldly merit and acclaim on this earth.”
“Is merit and global acclaim that important you?”
“It is. Poets are anti-social creatures by nature and therefore the loneliest out of all the professions in its class. I need fame and attention because I was so deprived of it while growing up.”
“Fame and great standing with your peers makes life more bearable to you?”
“It does. It makes life worth living- that everyone around you adoring your work proves that you really live… that you are alive… that you are something beyond… that you are something extraordinary… that you approached the impossible and attained her.”
“Standing out isn’t always an attractive offer.”
“It is when you have never stood out throughout your life and have been brandished as a backwards dilettante. I can have any woman I desire, and am married now to the most entrancing woman, thanks to you. I can possess materialistic objects, far beyond the grasp of many, and travel anywhere to any remote, exotic destination, or locale. Yet, something still gnaws at me… some bleeding, porous, and gaping wound haunts me.”
“That festering and haunting wound is your conscience and self-respect.” I sunk my head. “I should have rejected you the moment when I knew I was being intertwined in your supernatural splendor.”
“You should have, but you didn’t. There is a difference between the two.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you weren’t.” agreed Satan. “You were feeling… which is what poets do best…which is what you do best.”
“Damn feelings! Damn them all!”
“I am not a happy man, Satan.”
“That much is obvious.” A sudden, violent, frenzied rush came over me and in a panic I shouted, “Turn back time, Satan. Please, I beg you. I want to know if I could achieve something on my own…something of merit…. something without your help or interference.”
“You really are the Devil! You know, too well, the weaknesses of the human race and you exploit them.” Satan nodded in mute silence. “There is no burning fiery hell, is there? The real hell is getting what you desire and paying for it in some way. You seduce us with your charms, tease us with your riches, but in the end they are self-manufactured weapons to be used against ourselves!”
“You’re finally doing some real thinking.”
“That’s unfair and strategic, Satan!”
“That is why I exist. I never said I was a benevolent entity.”
I looked about the plush room with Satan’s gaze following my own. My eyes darted from one lavish object to another. They finally came upon a glinting, platinum revolver resting on a gold- lined, and cherry oak wooden chest.
“I could end it, you know.”
“Yes, I can. I can end it right now.”
“I severely doubt it.”
“Just watch me.”
“I’m watching.” I skipped over to the chest, picked up the revolver, and caressed the ergonomic grooves of the platinum metal, grated handle. I flicked the cylinder of the revolver open and stared at the outer casings of 6 silver bullets. Flicking it back into its original state, I deftly put it to the left side of my temple; took a deep breath; closed my eyes; began to squeeze the trigger and then, sighed. I relieved the trigger after a long moment and then placed the revolver back down on the wooden chest.
“Not as easy, as you thought it would be?”
“I have responsibilities.” My face was turning crimson red.
“Don’t we all. Responsibilities turn us into convicts. With responsibility comes lack of freedom…that, or you might be afraid of spilling your fragmented egg shells and red spaghetti on that nice, Persian rug you’re standing on.”
“This Persian rug is the least of my worries.”
“Then why did you buy it?”
“-To make myself feel better.”
“It doesn’t seem to have had much success.”
“It is of no importance and holds no value, now that you’re here.”
“My presence bothers you?”
I nodded my head in another, long, mute, and awkward silence. Satan observed this in casual fashion and broke the tense, strained atmosphere.
“Silence is when you are quietly talking to yourself. I imagine you talk to yourself, quite a bit.”
“It’s what poets are designed to do. It’s how we develop inspiration. It is the only thing I know how to do well.”
“That’s very sad. Only, mediocre poets do that.”
“Mediocre poets don’t converse with the phantom air, late at night.” I retorted. Satan chuckled and agreed. “You get top marks for originality,” he said, “With my influence, of course, and you’re right- not many famous poets do hold conversations with the supernatural in the deep hours of the night.”
I looked away and stared at the formal portrait painting of my wife and I hanging above the cast-iron and brick fireplace. “What is it like being an immortal?”
“What is it like feeling a constant, euphoric, waterfall breeze enfolding and swaying with you for eternity?”
“It must be nice to be you.”
“It has its advantages and disadvantages.”
“I don’t see any disadvantages being you.”
“Oh…there are, but I am not at liberty to discuss them.”
“What are you at liberty to discuss, then?”
“But, you said you wanted no payment for the gifts you endowed me with when we first met!”
My heart sank in trepidation. My mind reeled in agitated, diffident nervousness.
“What is… it that you want?”
“A poem, from you, and without my help-a spontaneous poem. I will give you a few moments to come up with something.” I struggled a bit with this and glanced outside my window. A lone moon was shining scattered, milky, beams of white light beneath my feet. The rays of moonlight were wavy and carefree. It was at this moment that some self- initiated and electrical force pulsated through me. “Ok, ok…I have one for you.” I began to speak and this is what came out:
The Dance by Moonlight
“Parted, scattered, moonlight dancing to and fro, amidst an autumn’s dry scented tornado coil…
…Enveloped and wrapped in this turbulent breeze, I toil –
to heights unknown.
‘O’ where did it go? O’ where did it go?’
God moments are all I live for now…
‘When will my God return?’
He parts and comes again only to sour my remaining days on this earthly plane, when he is away…
‘-When will the shafts of beaming sunlight reignite me?’
Earthly love is hollow and vain, and I yearn for that which is absolute and truly reigns…
…Religious, poetic salvation comes and goes, like parted, scattered moonlight dancing to and fro.”
Satan smiled when he heard this and said nothing for a while. “Why does God have to be in the poem?” “Is this poem some sort of weapon against Me?”
“Not at all. It just came out.” My face was turning crimson red again.
“I see. I think I shall not be bothering you anymore. I believe I shall leave you to your own devices from now on.” My gut sank and then a renewed kind of excited spirit came over me. I mumbled something incoherent and stared at the mahogany floor. When I had looked up, Satan had vanished. Relief and fright crept up against the hairs on my arms. I heard soft footsteps descending the oak staircase and turned around to see a half-asleep Vivien. She was dressed in a maroon satin robe and yawned out loud, “John…who were you talking to? It’s 3.a.m. I heard different voices.”
“Nobody, dear.” I exhaled a deep sigh. “I’m not talking to anyone.” I rested my tranquil hand on the oak, wooden ream of the velvet couch and walked with a sure gait, towards her. I stopped to pause in front of our large, gold plated ornamental mirror hanging in front of the hallway, and stared at my reflection for a few moments. My face changed into something recognizable and I smiled. “I was just thinking out loud, darling. Let’s go back to bed.”