She sits on a throne, high above the mortal plane, her presence an impenetrable force. A crown sits atop her head, glimmering with the weight of authority, while her long, manicured nails catch the light like sharpened daggers. Draped in a black dress, a veil cascades from her form, spreading out in dramatic arcs, a dark shadow trailing her every movement as she sits cross-legged in sovereign repose. Christian Louboutin shoes, their soles kissed by the ground but never touched by it, gleam like a warning. Stones adorn her—glistening, deadly, and so blinding that one glance would be enough to cripple anyone who dares to meet her gaze. She is not merely a lady of class; she is the embodiment of divine elegance twisted into a razor-sharp weapon. She is no divine feminine. She is a devil, cloaked in grace and beauty. From her throne, she gazes down at me, as if surveying the pitiful speck I am in her kingdom.
“You think that’s a good opening line?” she once mocked, her voice cold, venomous. “Maybe you should rethink your life choices.”
Those words—cutting, biting—stuck with me. They echoed long after she spoke them, lodged in the corners of my folder until they found their rightful place in the trash. She breathes down my neck whenever I dare to make a move, every step I take in pursuit of my dreams met with fury. Furious that I had dared to move, to leap, without first marinating in the comfortable, paralyzing swamp of doubt. I didn’t ask for her permission, didn’t wait for the perfect moment to arrive. I just jumped. And she retaliated.
Oh, how she retaliates. She has ways. The devil has her ways.
This is war. And it’s not a battle fought with physical weapons. No, it’s a war waged in the dark corners of the mind, where shadows are thick and whispers grow louder. The devil roars in my ear, a relentless, bone-shaking force. “It’s not good enough”, she hisses. “It’s not perfect. That’s not a good sentence to start with.”
I try to ignore her, but her words twist inside my mind, biting, sharp. And yet… I can’t help but question myself. Maybe it isn’t good enough. Maybe I haven’t earned it yet. But how can I ever learn if I don’t try? How can I improve if I don’t push through this moment of discomfort?
Her voice pounds in the back of my skull. ”Why are you even trying to continue this?” But I remind myself: I’m here to write, not to be perfect.
The whispers grow louder, morphing into full-blown screams. I’m at war with my own mind. The thoughts come, one after another—Stop. You’re not ready. Put the pen down. This isn’t the right time.
But in the quietest corners of my mind, a voice rises—my voice. No, keep going. Don’t let fear stop you. Perfectionism doesn’t matter right now. I grasp onto that fragile thought like a lifeline. Just write it all. Get the words out first. The editing can come later.
“You haven’t earned it. You’re not ready.” The devil insists. Her words are sharp, cutting through any remaining hope. “You don’t deserve to try yet. You’re not perfect.”
But even as her voice rages, a part of me holds on to something stronger. A defiant voice—my own—fights back. How can I be ready if I don’t begin? How can I become a master if I don’t fail and learn from it? It’s not perfection I need—it’s persistence.
I want to think of her as my other persona—a shadowy reflection of myself, draped in black like a devil whispering in my ear. She thrives on control, feeds on hesitation, and tightens its grip the moment I reach for freedom. It is not just a voice; she is a presence, lingering behind me, waiting for the perfect moment to seize the pen from my hand.
I wonder, sometimes, what might have been if I hadn’t let those stories sit in the bin, abandoned and forgotten. If I had dared to push through her whispers, to let the words flow, unfiltered, raw. Maybe I’d be a better storyteller today. But no—practice, feedback, they were never part of the process back then. Now, it’s different. But even with the understanding that perfection is a myth, the devil still haunts me. Her presence isn’t so bad, not always. But when she becomes resistance—when she becomes the excuse that keeps me from moving forward—that’s when she turns evil. That’s when she keeps me from taking risks, from finding my courage, from doing the work.
I look at the discarded stories now, unfinished, their plotlines forgotten and their characters muted, and I wonder. What if? What if I hadn’t listened to the whispers of the devil, hadn’t surrendered my control for the illusion of instant gratification?
But I’ve learned to call them “failed projects,” “learning curves.” Still, the shame lingers. The shame of giving in. The shame of surrendering, of allowing that whisper to be louder than my desire to create.
And now? Now, I’m not sure where I’m headed with this. Does it need a hopeful ending? A clear resolution? Maybe not. Maybe this is just chaos, my mind untangled, my thoughts spilled across this page like fragments of a broken story. It’s not a lesson, not a speech, not some grand thing to preach—it’s just me, speaking the words that have been floating around my head, things I had to say.
I treat this space like a digital diary now, a place where I can leave the silence that has grown so suffocating. Sometimes, I feel like a human trapped inside a robot—emotionally scarred, incapable of expressing everything I want to. But I hold on to a small comfort: the belief in parallel universes. Somewhere, in another reality, the version of me who dared to finish every story, to push past the devil’s whispers, is out there. And in that world, I am a storyteller without fear.