Why am I so obsessed with dragons?

Sometimes people ask me why I am so obsessed with dragons, and most of the time I lie. Sometimes I say they are cool, sometimes I say they are symbolism for mankind’s sins and I usually receive…confused feedback to my explanations. But here and now I tell the truth about my fascination; I tell the truth about my dragons.

Sometimes I think too much, I ponder over the smallest of things and eventually it speaks to me in its rasping voice. It tells me I am worthless, pathetic even. It tells me there are people in the world far better than I am, there always will be. It nags on about how I am inferior as a person, how I cannot relate to anything anyone else does, or says, or writes.

And it’s evil; oh yes it’s evil.

Every time I look upon anyone it judges them, and hisses an insult. Every time I speak it tries to taint my breath with its racist slander. I cage it within my mind, but it’s like gas under pressure, it heats up scorching my rational thought and it clouds my judgement. It makes me clumsy and irate. I do things hurriedly, as if my duties are merely in the way of a larger task at hand.

Eventually it is the only thing in my mind; it has devoured my philosophical pondering and replaced it with its own dark plots. It makes me feel evil, dark, unclean and angry. Though I cover it the best I can I cannot help but partially agree with its hurtful crooning, and eventually a whisper of its voice parts from my lips:

“Ahhh…” I sigh, crushed by its torments.

Then the memories arrive; the voices of the past and the taunts of the present. Every person that has attacked my confidence in the past, every person that judged too quickly come flooding back to stab me. Their false criticisms suddenly strike true as they loop inside my head. I clench my fists as the beast takes hold, and my pupils dilate with a feral glare; I frown in anguish, but only slightly. Its voice escapes my lips again.

“Kill…” it whispers; I whisper!

In sudden defiance I brandish my pen and paper. It is suddenly silenced but I don’t stop there! I stick it like a pig as I scrawl, it writhes and screams in fear. I ink its blood onto the page and skin it with an outline, starting with its head. Decapitated its futile squirms only distorts its image as I butcher it. It gains a shape in the real world, trapped in a prison of wood pulp and ink. It loses shape in my mind, and without a mouth to chide me it limps to the back of my head, bleeding euphoria, and awaits the next meal of logical thought.

* * *

An old lady paying at my till in Tesco once caught me in the act of this…release. I simply said;

“Sorry, I sometimes feel like I have demons in my mind and I need to get them out. It’s very therapeutic.”

She replied; “Well you are not a very good artist anyway,” and sauntered off.

I whispered; “I know…”

It whispered; “We know…”