Dear Martin,
It's your demons. Hi. Paul found a typewriter in one of your childhood memories, and we decided to write you a letter. Bob offered some skin as paper, and Jeremy reluctantly donated some black blood to type with (we didn't like him much anyways). It's always nice to get mail. Not that we would know, having never received any, but it always gets quiet around here when you get some. I'm not a fan.
Haven't talked in awhile. You've been busy lately, what with your wedding and your job and your concerts. We've barely been able to get to you since you started working out - Ray over in self-image has been having a fit trying to keep up. He asked me to say hello, and to please stop whatever you're doing. He can't believe you actually think you're making progress, seeing as you are doomed, as you know, to a lifetime of hating the body you're in. But apparently you've managed to rattle a few chains lately, weaken a few links. Bravo. I find the effort rather entertaining, actually. The harder you pull, the tighter our chains get, which is why I suppose you're reading this letter. But you've had so many chances to learn that, it seems almost a waste to spend any more blood on it. You're going to fail sooner or later.
I guess, since you're reading this, it's quite obvious we're still here. You didn't think we'd actually go away, did you? We like the dark, the cool, moist dimness of your inattention. It's quiet, there aren't the distractions of the day, the kind words of family and friends are far way - that's the way I prefer it. No buffer, just you and me and the darkness, as it should be.
"Then why are you writing?" I can hear you asking. Well, to be honest, your inattention hasn't been so dim lately. The day shines so much brighter now, it's hard to get any night in which to work. Your job, your woman, your friends, your music, your movie - they're shining brighter now than they ever have, stretching longer into the night, our night, and frankly we can't work in these conditions.
So, I'm here to tell you, now that I have your attention, that you are never going to finish your movie. I know you think you will, but you aren't. I'll see to that. I'll fill you so full of dread and fear of your own inability that you won't be able to move an inch. I'll tell you how awful it is, how it's not worth finishing, how it is proof you are a bad writer, how you never should have started it in the first place, how you never finish the things you start. You've been fighting us pretty hard on that one for a long time, but you're not going to win. It's a losing battle. Give up.
You are not as good a pianist as people think you are. You cannot play scales. I repeat: You. Cannot. Play. Scales. It takes you a long time to learn new pieces. People are just being nice to you when they compliment you, because they know that without being good at music you would shrivel up and die on the carpet (which would make Ray really happy so I hope you'll at least consider it). If people actually liked your music, you would have no CDs left in your closet. It's only a matter of time before they call you the hack you really are.
Your job is a waste of your time. Instructional Designer? What is that? No one knows what it is when you tell them, which makes you look stupid and useless or overly important and useless. You'll never make enough money. You're going to get stuck doing it because you need the health care and because you are too afraid to do something else. If we're lucky, we'll keep you from doing what you want to do for years. If we're really lucky, and I wouldn't put it past us, you'll never find out what it is you really want to do. Let me tell you what, nothing is more impressive to other demons than to keep a soul from its purpose - all the guys at the pub think I'm the man, so don't fuck that up for me. Chicks dig it.
And your friends. I know you're making a last stand at the wedding, gathering up as many as you can, but where are they the rest of the time? Almost all your friends from the movie are gone. Many are scattered all over the world and away from you. They never really liked you all that much anyways, always thought you were weird and awkward. And you know it's only going to get worse after you get married.
And speaking of marriage, we had a field day with that one, didn't we? Man, the guys and I had a hell of a time. We miss those days when you listened to us more, when a single word wreaked havoc on you. You know that marriage means death - the death of you, the death of everything you are. I know lately you've seen some promise in a "new beginning," but it's a fake just like you. A mirage just like you. An afterthought, just like you. Your relationship with Jess will never be perfect, never be enough. It will always be missing something, be lacking something. You will always wonder what it would like to date others, and you will never be content, no matter how much she loves you or how happy you are.
Whew! That ought to do it. Just wanted to write and remind you who is in charge here. Your days may be getting brighter, but we have sunglasses. And sooner or later it will get dim again, dark again, and when it does we'll be here. It's going to take more than a few notches in your column to burn us away.
Love,
Your Demons
P.S.- Please send money.
