The Demon Speaks

He stands in the white room. A vast empty nothingness stretches out from him in all directions. It’s a bit of a Neo in The Matrix moment. There is nothing but him. Him and nothing else. Until there is more.

He speaks but no words come out of his mouth. It is the speaking of the mind, the soul, the body of the other. From another place and time comes a parade. A show starts up, a long train of Maybes start up in the distance. Their rumblings can be heard a long way off but they are getting closer.

Soon, a few ideas come floating by. They offer their wares to him as they past.  Fresh! Best! Hardly used! Each is more of the same and so he is not listening too much. He looks, glances. Maybe keeps some in mind for some later event. Some eventuality. But he waits.

It is the concepts he likes. The ideas swollen a bit with age and wisdom. Those that have survived the clash of the young and have growth, have matured. It is those he looks at closely as they past.

It is not a lusty look but it is an interested look. They know it and some give him glances too. Some bits of flirting but nothing serious. Not yet anyway. He was will his way with one of them. Maybe. But not now. It’s all about the looking, the pre-show. Both sides gain equality in their voyeurism.

As the parade winds down, he had made some choices. Has a top ten, best five. But it is not his decision. He can want all he wants. He can speak of needing but he does not decide. The demon does.

There are no horns. No red skin. No deep, breathy voice. It’s not even seductive. Not totally anyway. But there is a quality. Some undefinable yet characteristic essence to the voice. When it speaks, and you will know when it does, action must be taken. The voice must be heeded.

And so the man waits. What is the choice to be this time? The same thing again? Something new? The man has some new picks, wants to try out some concepts he had his eyes on for awhile. He even spied an idea or two he would go for… should the demon let him. Instead of going for them, recalling them back, he waits.

The demon takes its time.

Sometimes it is a she, with whispers that gives goosebumps. All full of honey. Sometimes with vinegar. Threats mixed with overtones of possible pleasures. You will does for me. You want to. Go on. Go on. Try it.

It can also be a man. Domineering and demanding. You will do want it wants. Now. No bickering. No wining. Just fucking do it! Right now! Go! Go! Go!

The man doesn’t care care what the shape of the demon is. He will always give in. Sometimes he will put it off, sometimes he can. He will postpone when possible. But he gives in. He always does, given time.

Few things can exist in the nothingness. Yet, somehow the man can drag things in with him. Tools and tack. Building materials. Working plans. The demon knows this. The man knows. The ideas know this. The concepts know this. They all know. Only the man dislikes it. Not always. But often. They can all influence him, pull him one way or another. Yet only he can transform things. The demon can seduce or scream. But the man builds. In this he is unique. Yet, he listens to the demon.

The demon has made its decision. You will write of this. This pick has a label. It reads: The Process.

The monologue continues from the demon as the concept wriggles to get free.  Explain it. Details here and there. Dress parts up when necessary but part the curtain some. 

Everything but the man fades. The man stands in the white room alone again. He starts to speak. He stands in a white room