When I carve meat for dinner, the dogs lie on the floor—watchful, yet calm. Their focus is absolute. They aren’t too close; they know I’ll drive them away. But they aren’t too far either, always ready to spring if a scrap has too much fat and I toss it to the floor. Dogs know their place.
And so my spirits.
They circle around, hungry for every shred of energy I possess and am willing to pour into matter. They wait for it. Salivating, ready to tear it from my hand. They flock to me because they know I am generous. But I have my limits; pouring energy into matter is exhausting. So, I keep the spirits in check. Just like the dogs. They know I will cast them out if they overstep. They behave, and in this arrangement, everyone is satisfied.
I use mostly one term for all invisible entities: demons.
It always puzzles me when people speak infantilly about angels. Reckless idiots! These are beings of immense will and a morality that is too difficult for humans to grasp. “Goodness” in the human sense, rooted in such a shallow material world, is fragile. So I avoid the word ‘angel’ as much as I can.
We can be certain of the demons’ power over us, yet their intentions remain a mystery. Consorting with them is a double-edged sword. Like a game of Chinese whispers—you never know who is on the other end. Still, they need us too. We complete each other.
When I think of our worlds, I see the invisible one hovering like a mist just above the ground. A condensed, milky fog. The invisible world intertwines with our physical one in every dimension. We are like plants in one garden, separated only by a wall of “visibility.” The human eye sees very little—though, considering the fragility of the mind, perhaps that is a blessing. Souls have will, but no power to act. We, the living, have the power to act, but often lack the will. That is where demons come from—from a lack of willpower during life. Now, walking through the mist, we attract or repel these entities, each in our own unique way. After so many years of human existence, the fog is very thick now.
Spirits have always flocked to me, but lately, somehow I’ve begun to attract them much more. Sometimes they find me just walking. Sometimes I take over spirits attached to other living human beings. I think spirits like me. Perhaps it’s my innate optimism, or the strong life energy I cultivate. Above all, I have a strong will to notice things others would label as “coincidence.” To me, no such thing exists, but that magical word allows for a thread of communication between our separate worlds.
Demons know the rules. If they push too far, they lose their host. They gain the most when their host isn’t categorized as insane. They also know that by offering small help, they profit more than by mere passive presence. Perhaps there is a hierarchy, just like our human one: smarter and dumber, better and worse, stronger and weaker.
The spirits that flock to me are mostly imaginative, playful and slightly rebellious. They like to laugh. So do I.
Demons do speak to me. Help me with simple things. I try not to rely on them, always standing at attention before life’s challenges. When I sense their intentions, I try not to let them down. It brings me joy, but it is exhausting. Spirits can be greedy if shown favor. But comfortingly, mine seems greedy only for energy; their intentions remain pure.
When my demons go too far, I don’t hesitate to stomp my foot. The last time they overstepped was a few months ago. They were foolish enough that I felt—physically—as if I were touching a soft, wet mass in my own head labeled “sanity.” Reaching that limit, I took them by the neck and we went to church.
I like visiting churches. Not just for the architecture, but for the services. I prefer the Lutheran church. The white simplicity and dignity of its form force even the most brawling entities to their knees. Interestingly, the people there don’t actually kneel, which I love. It’s a wonderful contrast—dignity and humility combined—compared to the parrot-like parody of the Catholic faith. Having grown up in a family rooted in that branch, I’ve seen enough. Faces full of artificial pain, beating chests for an hour, once a week. Outside of that hour—all hell breaks loose.
In the Lutheran church, I also like the people. Simple, ordinary, modest, yet radiating strength. The strength of wisdom gained from life’s blows. No one judges. Everyone is welcome. I like the pastor too—educated yet humble. Simple words for matters of faith. Perhaps the slightly lofty tone of the sermon carries a hint of Catholic artificiality, but I feel no falsehood. It is soothing.
Despite my good will, I cannot say I participate fully. Confession excludes me. For how can I speak sincerely of “regret for my sins” when I do not regret them? Not only do I not regret them—I know each of my sins, and I committed every single one with full awareness. I know I will commit them again, for I intend to. Some, I can hardly wait for.
Nevertheless, this doesn’t disqualify me, and to my spirits, it makes no difference whether I confess or not.
But I truly love reciting The Creed. My favorite part: “I believe in all things visible and invisible.” I always make sure to say it loudly and confidently. I want to be certain that every entity looming over my shoulder hears it. Yes, I am talking to you.
So I go to church, more or less fruitfully.
Meditations on a doe skull, 90x80cm, oil on canvas, 2026