So I celebrate the demon that burns in me.

So I celebrate the demon that burns in me. For so long I have kept it in darkness. And what for? I have fed it by fearing it, I have made it mine by fleeing from it. Only light shows the eyes what darkness is.

Must I submit to it, then, if I am not to repress it? Light shows the eyes that darkness is where I hide my pain. Pain is the fear I have of darkness. Living hurts when I refuse to live. Is there any meaning in this drama? Only when I know who I am.

Meanwhile, the demon will want to convince me, will want to make me believe it exists. For the sake of its illusory survival, it will cling to proclaiming that it exists. Fears, desires, beliefs, pains. It is the pure essence of my heart that pretends, in its game, that this demon exists, the demon that wants to convince me it exists.

I celebrate it, then, because only thus can I look it in the eyes and recognize, from my own eyes, that I am not it, that I am another, and yet not another, but my very self. Then I can bow my head and recognize, from my own eyes, that I am no one.

So I celebrate that no one burns in me, that there may be pain but it hurts no one. Living is love when I burn to live.