. .prosodic arson. . . . . . .(header pic tribute to Zilon).

It's history, all history. The past; I would say I never let it haunt me but that, my friend, is wholy impossible. You see, whether I like it or not (whether anyone does) my past history is me. My environment, my experiences have created my views and ideas as well as my issues and problems - my demons. So essentially I am haunted by myself. I am haunted by my thoughts and ideas and all the emotions I have built over the years that have created a wonderful array of triggers; chemicle, physical, electrical and metaphorical. You get where I am going with this?

I am haunted by love, loss, integrity, image, ideal, morality, amorality, sex, violence, future, past, hope, faith, fate, words.... And so many more and, in some cases, the lack of the afforementioned precepts.

Are not, if anything, we but little conglomerations of hope and regret; experience? But small walking apparitions of ourselves: we are our past, we are our demons; we are the manifestation of our psyche - our psyche the manifestation of our past. I'm talking in circles here, but therein lies the point.
A tormented soul is a soul that has truly lived. This, in answer to a few of merrygirl 's questions, is why, though from one perspective I have too many demons, at the same time [if not more so], I do not yet have enough. This world is filled with an ammount [of experiences] indeterminably and exponentially quantum. I speak here of experince as the substance that dirrectly produces demons and by demons I mean small determinable events of hapiness, sadness and raw emotion tied to experience that we lock away subconciously in all the little rooms of our mind only to be triggered later and later again. But doors, but stars or little rooms; the entrry ways are the triggers.
I'm getting abstract here, but feel that I need little more explanation into the maze of the mind. It's simple to comprehend - so far, impossible to master or control.

...And one day, when I am truly complete... That will be the day I crack, the day I lose the last little bit of sanity. Perhaps the day I die. But the book closes in volumes and the pages burn through time... And time itself fades to the infinity of end and beginning transcending the boundaries of memory through the doctrines of the printing press.