Accused of everything under the sun, blamed for all and sundry and sometimes with truth in their words and the charges – the responsibility is truly being mine alone. However, more often than not, they are just the unfortunate side effect of being the scapegoat, of being the person the finger gets pointed at when trouble brews, when the ugliness of jealousy steps into the heart of a person, when envy and hate are allowed to fester, to breed and to accumulate in a kind of toxic soup, bubbling under the surface, never truly revealed until the bitter taste of poison cramps their stomach and the foam of any residual innocence is long since evaporated.

The scapegoat, the devil in the detail, there is no sympathy for him they say; I hold out for any sign of compassion, of kindness in the heart and if there is none then the Devil, that shallow beast of false consideration can have you, for what does a scapegoat care, he is going to be eaten by the Barbarians, the corrupt and the starving anyway; a truly democratic beast of virtue, shared out amongst all.

“You have the Devil in you”, true words of us all, me perhaps more than most, lied, cheated, swindled, stolen the integrity from many women and even more men, kissed those who had no reason to fear, coyly taken advantage of those who wanted it more than they ever let on, told millions I love them; the Devil is in the detail and I have forgotten more names than is good for me, the Devil cannot be held accountable for not remembering to pack a pen every time he leaves the house.

Of course I am not truly evil, I am a man like some of you, that is what is peculiar, for often I am seen in many guises, never settling down, never being true to my origins and the sense of the game, you see me how you wish to and whilst I might not do anything, whilst I might sit there with a cup of tea gently being stirred by the most silver of spoons and even be completely uninterested in your actions, your heartbeat betrays you, it says I am quick, I lust and crave and must devour, I must have, I must have. I. Must. Have…so I nudge you slightly, prod you gently in the cracking ribs, and whilst the logic in your brain says no I must resist, the stomach begins ache, that heart you think so pure and above all petty wants, caves under the slightest tremor and you devour the moment as if you hadn’t eaten for a month; the last chance to chow down on a meal of spiritual enlightenment, yes I am to blame for the nudge, but that is my nature, what’s your excuse.

Let me introduce myself, though why I wonder I need to, for after all you have known me all your life, since you first learned to listen to your mother and the one you called father, since you first realised that words held the key to knowledge and imagination, you know me, you have shuddered in fright at the thought and as you have grown older you have shuddered in desire; I am the bogeyman, the walking dude, the minister with head held high and carrying the illuminated and fiery cross, I am but your imagination running wild, I am your subconscious, I am the breath you take before you close your eyes and the thankful dream forgotten, I am you. Of course I may have the Devil in me, but you my dear, yours is so much more interesting, it rages, it burns with clarity, it fills your heart with damnation and yet you still consider yourself virtuous, clean, pure and holy, you liken yourself to the unconsidered, the lost language of fidelity and yet I know, after all I have nudged you slightly in the ribs when you thought you were in the clear and when nobody was watching, in a heartbeat, in that second it takes you to even start to inhale, that God lost interest in you for the moment and you allow your inner demon to be discovered.

Okay, the game is over, I am just like you, you see me how you wish to, to the older woman needing comfort I am the young strapping stud in tight jeans and sexualised sweat driven Tee-Shirt, a logo of her youth appearing on the front and the soft talk to match. To the frustrated man whose libido has all but given up the ghost I am the flattery that accompanies the once youthful desire in the shape of the twenty year old virgin, short denim shorts, frayed at the edges and the smile of the aspiration to finally lose her straight jacket; I am the madness and yet I am sane, in a world of covet and greed, I am your nudge and whilst you may regret, inside you hope to see me again.

The Devil is in the detail and I ask for no sympathy, for why should there be such understanding between us; I go my way, you go yours…but sometimes we meet, sometimes when you least expect it, I will show up in your life and find that one spark of danger, that element of surprise, of pity in your voice and you feel the need to want, whether it is man or woman, whether it is property, knowledge or power, I offer it you, you don’t have to take it…but you do.

I met a man once to whom desire meant nothing, or so he thought, that in his actions as he wandered almost comatose, on the verge of his own reveal, his own inner demons being purged from his body, the modern day toxins and venom, the spite, the hatred and the polluting charms of his life, he thought there was no desire left in him. I watched as he struggled, the mine field surrounding him, the desert beyond that, the raging oceans encircling him, the weight of the world baring down upon his, admittedly large, soul and I was captivated, I was the one who felt desire, a strange and unwelcome beast, I wanted to find out what was driving him, what made this particular Human Being shuffle in torment, in blood and confusion, in solitude and despair; why would someone do this to themselves if not to prove a point or to commit suicide.

I may have the Devil in me but desire, jealousy, want, greed, these are things that make no sense, gluttony, avarice, ownership, dominance, insults to us all and yet we cave into them as if finding a sliver of fascination deep within its meaning; why would we give all that up, all that longing, all that aspiration in search of significance, of inner value, I desired him more as I slowly watched from the rocks.

Gently I crawled down from the sun bleached stones, I cast myself in the form of a harlot, of a woman whose experience with men made her desirable, made her sweat with pheromones and joy, her sex, though cold to me, was one that bled out from every pore and the soft glaze of beauty was one that I was sure I could find a way to reveal the truth in this man’s stare.

Gently I crawled on all fours and then lifted myself up and allowed my billowing skirt, damp though there was no rain, welcoming though there was no place to stir the emotions, to rise and show the outline of a leg, my hands outstretched as imploring to dance with me, to dominate me and touch my heaving breasts with his mouth. No dance, no time given, except for certain mumblings of disinterest, of outspoken rejection and slowly I slinked unnoticed back to the bleached out rocks where salamanders laughed before they burnt in fire, I disrobed my female form, I let the breasts merge back into my body and I transformed before the now burnt remains of the salamander into the image of a black man, strong, supple, encouraging and full of raging hormones. Straight out of the desert I approached and I saw him see me and in one fleeting moment I thought I saw a recognition, I saw his own love but as I got closer, he apologised with a simple and sincere gesture that his only search was for a kindred spirit not someone to lay in the dust with.

I walked on and felt his closed eyes search into my heart, no pleasure driven in for either of us, no war, no games, a simple truth that he required no sex from man or woman, no sweat offered or gained; this was a man to whom complexity was made for.

I appeared in many forms, holy man, holy woman, young innocent with questions, raging fire, driven snow, ice, flood and carrying hope in the event that he should die here on this isolated world; each time he would lower his eyes and through the slits, would become at peace with himself, he would become still and breathe deeply. I shut out the world, I made it black, I turned off the Sun, I made the moon explode, I ravaged him, I beat him, I pierced him and told him he was unloved, uncared for and truly alone. I took his hope and watched as no tears formed, no forgiveness sought, no thanks offered; he was alone in this world and dealt with it with eyes lowered and the prayers of his ancestors at his lips.

In the end I appeared as an insect to him, an ant, insignificant, alive, unseen and crawling on his hand, I expected to squashed, I demanded disgust, retribution and to be seen as the abomination that I was, yet as I found my way onto the palm of his hand, the inevitable crush, the mangling of my body against two palms, he simply raised his head towards the sunlight, the shimmering spectre of a light I had deprived him of, and he softly and without a single word passing his lips, placed me down on the grains of sand and sighed.

I was rage, I had come to him in the form of woman, of man, of burden and desire and all he could offer me in this final moment was a sigh, not even one of anger or disinterest but of redemption, I had been saved in his eyes and in that fury spilled out of me like never before and never since.

I made the heavens explode, I stopped time, I hurled the Earth into the void and yet all he would do is gaze upon me as if looking at a blade of grass clinging to a cliff, wonder perhaps but no desire to climb down and see what makes it hold fast in such a fashion. I took all that he had and exhausted I finally fell down at his feet and asked what there was that drove him, what made him so infallible to my charms, my lustful approach and temptation.

Simply and with truth in his words, he said, “To say I was not tempted would be wrong, I just chose to not listen, when you were a woman, when you came to me expecting to be taken like any other woman in such a position, I chose not to listen. When you came as a dark warrior and muscles rippling in time with the sands I chose not to listen, when you made the Sun die and the heavens crack and splinter I chose to not listen; when you came as an ant, temptation told me to squash you and let you be finished upon this world, your own soul scattered to dust forever, I chose not to listen; I placed you down upon the sand so you my friend might live. For what am I without you, what am I without the one who can make people live their dreams and feel for themselves what it means to be human, to err and to be beguiled with the promise of a memory.”

I howled in the heat and dust, I raged and my cries shook mountains, I was his equal and I never noticed, his desires were mine, to see a smile on the face of the desperate woman, of the old man facing the final days in ignominy and regret, the laughter of a child chasing down a butterfly, I raged and a desert storm whipped up from the South and carried me with it.

Let me introduce myself, I am who I always have been, who I always will be, I look for no sympathy, I urge no caution, your regrets are your alone and with a kiss, the deep bruising of passion I nudge and implore you to make your mark on this life, to have that stolen regretful kiss, to say at times the wrong thing, to harm, to offer solace and to be as charming and impressive as you can be; enjoy your time for you will not come close to destroying me as that man in the desert came; you will force me out but I will always find a small hole in which to whisper down your ear, do it, love yourself for the moment, wish for comfort, wish for longing in the face of death.

I would introduce myself, however you know me, for I am you in the mirror, I am that grin of self satisfaction when you decide to destroy someone’s life, when you want to control someone’s emotions and tear their souls to shreds when you believe that you are better than them; I am you.

Ian D. Hall 2016