I met the devil

I put down my cup and raise my head up to a level position, the questions I’m asked aren't hard but I feel far away when I answer them.

Its been days since I've slept, and years since I let myself believe but now I do.

Now I know the truth and with what use I could be to the world

My fingers uncurl from a clenched fist under the table and I’m able to focus again

mind is at ease gun hand releases the cup of tea and I look up from the table to see him staring back at me

"The answer you ask for is not one for me to give. Do you believe in causative reality? Do you believe that everything happens for a reason or that we are the masters of our own existence? Do you believe in persistence?"

I offer

The man across the table relinquishes his glare relaxes into his chair and taps twice on the table with his Parker pen.

The air is stern now, fervent heat through electricity magnetizes the room as the truth pulses between us

His eyes grow darker and with it his demeanor. I stay, sharp, alert.  The sleep that clung to me at the start of questioning resides allowing me to slide back into control.

 "Do you believe we have a soul? Do you believe we know all there is? Do you believe we have given all we have to give? Have we lived?"

He turns his head away from mine in disgust, the lust for carnage and disproportionate anarchy rattles through his eyes and out of his fists. Still I sit.

His control turns cold, rage heated to the point of exploding he tries to resolve but I have him. He is mine. Never in turn never out of line I ask him one more time. 

"Do you really think we are alive?"

Limits

  . . . . . . . .

Is it sight that makes you blind or blindness that makes you see?

Is it speech that makes you dumb or dumbness that makes you speak?

Is it deafness that makes you hear everything you never heard before or noise that deafens your senses to everything around and more?

Do your hands tremble because of anger or do your angered fists clench shaking?

Do tears flow because of instances or situations of your own making?

Do hallowed words break loose from the mouth of unsettled tyrants or is it the whispered words of others that make tyrants so rampant?

Do angels sing their serene melodies to calm the despairing souls, or do lamenting matriarchs show their vocals encouraging angels to be bold?

Does a smile show the fine line between joy and melancholy or is it merely a placard of arrogant ignorance to the slightness of someone’s folly?

Are guns the mark of war or is war the maker of guns and is peace sought for the country or to show others what can be done?

And how

See for now, these questions need not be answered,

Need not be laid out and plastered over all four walls around you, need not be facebooked thousand hits, articles written and perceptions altered.

For these are rhetoric, these are ponderings, Derelict from methodical algorithms.

They are unanswerable for the masses, but entertained by oneself. The answer you provide.

For you are the blind man that can see through your eyes, if you would just use them and let your deaf ears hear your own rhythm, let your own speech provide the hymn let your wars be fought on all four fronts of sight, sound, touch and smell. And let your heart swell. Let your life be your guide, your perceptions be your mind and remove yourself from manipulation.

For then and only then will your angels sing.