What did Cacoethes inspire?
noun; meaning "an irresistible urge to do something inadvisable”
There upon the ground,
In chalk, in wax, in blood,
My thoughts splayed open,
Like the innards of a cockerel,
It's wings touch the west and east,
As I drip the oil to each of the four,
The third eye unfolding, opening unto me,
The secrets of the unseen world,
The whispers of the ancients,
Wisdom, power, the forbidden words,
All are mine for the the taking,
And yet... I am afraid.
The months of work,
Locked away in dark rooms,
Sealed off from the outside world,
I gave myself over to them,
My mind, my body, my soul,
Yet now, I am filled with such uncertainty,
What was it I sought when I first set out?
What warped dreams now curl around my soul?
I gaze into the blackness, into the glow,
And I am gazed back upon,
Not with eyes, not with any sense,
Nor any thing recognizable to my mortal form.
I am nothing unto that which gazes back,
And yet it will not look away,
And I can not look away,
Eyes locked onto a void of immense and unknowable power,
And I am no more my self,
Victim to a cacoethes,
My arms reach out and I am drawn in,
And outward, and beyond,
The tendrils on my soul now devouring the mind,
Such are the tender dreams of a mortal soul
To dream of such power,
To die in such folly.
And thus I am, and will be,
Time, and time, and time again,
Testing and prodding the flesh of my form,
Gazing back into the void where once I was trapped,
As the blinded gaze of a thousand souls looks out upon me,
In longing, in hunger, in want,
Of the dreams, and pleasures, and sensations,
Now surrendered. Now mine.
There on the floor, I trace the lines,
In chalk, in wax, in blood,
And I am human once more.
The house that I should not have entered was what one might politely describe as decaying.
There was a plastic Santa Claus figure on the roof. Wearing dark sunglasses, as Santa is known to do. He was standing next to a reindeer, also plastic. Going off the red nose, it was probably Rudolph. Everyone always decorates with Rudolph. As if it’s okay to play favorites just because the deer had some pretty weird chemical exposure in young deerhood.
He, and by he I mean Rudolph the chemically altered mythical deer in plastic, was also wearing sunglasses. And they were on the roof. In garbage cans. In August.
The house I should not have entered, with its adornments straight out of some twilight fictionville hellzone, was the house I eventually couldn't deny my cacoethes towards.
It took me three years to stand on the front porch. The one directly underneath Mr. Claus and his faithful steed. Are they still considered steeds if they aren't situated directly beneath the rider? In this case, it was probably the best option. The porch didn't creak as much as I’d expected, nor as much as I’d wanted it to. What’s a good story if you can’t even start it with a creaky step? It creaked. Just pretend the steps creaked. Every single one. It was horrifically loud. I feared for my life at what the sounds might call forth.
Except there was nothing since there wasn't even a loose board.
It took me another few months to walk up to the door and press the doorbell. Not that I waited on the porch for five months. There was just… something off kilter about the place. No one ever came or went, but the lights never seemed to turn off. The whole place tilted slightly to the left, and may have been sinking into the ground… okay, it was definitely sinking into the ground. But there were no squeaks, no creaks. The house looked ready to disintegrate into nothingness, and the appearance seemed more of a mirage than a reality.
The doorbell worked. Echoes of normal doorbell sounds coming from the stained glass windows and the door to the house I should not have entered opened.
The windows shattered. The world tilted and blackened and smelled like the insides of earth and the rotting of wood. I awoke to darkness and my hands pounding on a cushion, plush and red and barely softening the blows.
The house I shouldn't have entered awoke me, when I should have stayed as I was.
Lovers Anonymous
It's one a.m. and the feeling hits again. This is why nights are the hardest; we're so much vulnerable at night. The only thing creatures like us want is companionship, and so we open up more as dusk turns to dawn. We reveal things we shouldn't. We play our hand too early, without waiting for morning's clarity to make sense of the game.
Autumn nights are the most difficult. They say the veil between the spirit world and the tangible one is at its thinnest around this time of year. Well, you're no ghost, but you always show up to haunt me during this season anyways.
"I shouldn't do it," I tell myself. "I shouldn't do it." My common sense begs me not to commit this sin. My heart eggs me on. "Oh, go on. Maybe it'll be different this time."
The urge is too strong, and I soon give in to it.
(I don't know why common sense ever bothers; we all know the heart wins out every time.)
I make my move. I lay my cards on the table. I say hello.
"Who is this?" the voice on the other line says.
I should've waited for the river card. I should've folded. I shouldn't have bet on this hand.
I never should've even sat down at the table.
Next time, I'll win the hand. Next time, common sense will win out. Next time, I won't give in to the urge. Next time.
(I've never had any self-control. I'm an addict, and you've always been my addiction, but now I need to get clean.)
Next time.
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