I used to think that I was enlightened, only to discover one day that I was in fact only a DSE, which is to say, a Distorted Spiritual Ego. All the glory which I had fondly imagined myself to possess was merely a squalidly loathsome exercise in self-deception! Oh, the horror and self-loathing of that moment – how could I have allowed myself to end up in such a situation? What had I been thinking of? Why would I play such a trick on myself? I grew angry then and I wished to rip up the world into tiny pieces to show what I felt about things. I wanted to go on a rampage to demonstrate to anyone wh might be interested the full extent of my pain and despair. ‘The world will know’, I said to myself grimly, ‘the world will know…’

My plans came to nothing of course – I was far too weak and feeble to rip up anything, least of all the world, which is large and formidable. The idea of me in any way trying to go on some sort of ‘rampage’ was frankly laughable and I knew it. My plans were in disarray and there was nothing I could do. Perhaps I should do a deal with Satan, I said to myself. Perhaps that’s what I should do. That might give me the edge. The all-important edge. My mind was running wild at this stage of course. Running wild, running wild. Running completely wild. Freaking out big time, freaking out as if there was no tomorrow. I’d run out of self-compassion – ‘freak out some more’, I screamed hysterically at myself, ‘freak out some more you stupid bastard.’ I was my own worst enemy you see. I was always my own worst enemy. Often, I’d punch myself viciously when I least expected it. ‘Take that you little shit,’ I would say triumphantly, ‘see how you like that!’

It’s important to keep the edge, once you have it. I know that much. Very important to keep the edge. ‘Days of sorrow, days of rage’, I quoted to myself. ‘Days of sorrow, days of rage…’ I was quoting from the scriptures, I was remembering the Day of Wrath. The end of the world was not far off, I reasoned. We were definitely living in the End Times. Events had been foretold, omens predicted. Always the omens, always the omens. I’d learned to sing a little song to keep the world safe and it was my duty to keep on singing it, come what may. ‘Sing the song, sing the song’, I exhorted myself frantically, but my voice was cracked and wheezing. Nothing came out of my parched mouth apart from a dismal echoey croak. A despairing croak. A wretchedly feeble and forlorn croak. An impotent croak. ‘Why am I so impotent?’ I asked myself, feeling perplexed and disillusioned. ‘How have I fallen so low?’ It hadn’t been so long ago – after all – that I had been a god…