As I child, I was tortured by my dreams.   I was tormented by demons.  Actual demons, not metaphysical concepts. 

The night would terrorize me.  Often I would find myself in a labyrinthine house, wandering around, trying to find my way, when I would stumble into their clutches. A few of those dreams I recall clearly still.

One involved an old farmhouse like my grandparents still inhabit.  Walking upstairs, I saw a shrouded man in a cloak.  I burst out in rage at him and charged.  As I crossed an elaborate oriental rug, it disappeared, and I had the sensation of plummeting.  But I went nowhere.  He threw his cowl back and laughed a hearty evil laugh while I hung there, suspended.

Then invisible hands and claws rent my flesh from my bones while I screamed, but my tongue was of lead.  In the corner, a small tinny radio played a heavy metal song called "Hells Bells".

The others I chose not to relate.  I think I might have been ten.  Maybe twelve.  This happened so often to me.

Anyway, of late, my torment is mental, not physical.  It is a manifestation of a fear of failure.

And not in the conventional sense.  I would have no problem attempting something, its not that.  I would a million times rather attempt something and fail rather than have been of such weak character as to have never attempted anything at all.

Its as if whatever is to happen, has happened, and I did not succeed.  Life has passed me by, and I am a pathetic loser, never even trying.  Or, if I did try, my efforts were so shallow and remedial as to be an interminable embarassment.  I become a representation of all that I loathe and strive not to be, even as I see it in me.  I try to eliminate it at every turn.  I will not be a pathetic, blowhard boob who accomplishes nothing in his life.

The shame is incredible.  Its as if I would rather die.  All my moxy, all my gifts, all my arrogance is my eternal shame, and nothing is my name.  I have nothing, I am nothing and wretched is my state.

And I suppose I would rather die than that.  There are many fates worse than death.

So I try to use it as motivation when I awake.  I study, and try.  I pack every minute of the week in with something, work, school, the band.  I am making another album.  I will have another poem published soon.  I have a marquee in town with my name on it.  I have taken my picture underneath.  I have plans for further education.   Work might offer me a better position soon.

I have a great girl.

And all of it just barely seems enough to keep the demons at bay.  Sometimes its not enough, and I suffer.

More more more.  Its like life has become a sensual buffet.  An all you can eat affair and it is splayed out in front of me, ready to be eaten.  Begging to be eaten.  I can not eat fast enough.  I can not eat as much as I would like, even if I spent every minute eating.  I feel as though I must always have more.  More more more, and not enough time. 

Not enough time.