The Beast within
The Meadow Before the Walls
The gardens where the dead rest in hallowed grounds—where their monuments remind us of our mortality, and where new life slowly overgrows and crumbles the markers made of marble. As a young child, I always felt drawn to these places, and at the same time, I was terrified that at night these peaceful grounds of remembrance would turn into something sinister. I felt that the silence held something more than just peace—something otherworldly, though I could never quite name it.
When I grew a little older, I loved to write stories—tales about ghosts, rituals, and magic. I didn’t write about the friendly ghost Casper, but about restless spirits tormenting children because they could not find peace or light. In my stories, there was always a shaman or spirit guide who helped the children protect themselves and guided the lost souls toward rest and peace. My Surinamese teacher once told me I should never write about such things again. And in his eyes, I saw a flicker of fear. Was it fear of me?
Am I weird? I guess I am, my eleven-year-old self thought. This "darkness" I wanted to explore was apparently something people didn’t like—and I wanted to be liked. So I kept this interest hidden until I eventually forgot about it. And up came the second wall. I had already learned that people didn’t want me to speak about things that made me worried or sad. And now, I had learned that speaking about darkness and the mystery it held for me was not appropriate either.
Walls of Marble, Breath of Flame
I had a beast inside me, slowly growing with every rejection or setback I experienced from the outside world. People rejected me for following my instinct, my intuition, my curious self. It whispered to me through my own thoughts and built walls, ditches, and barricades of splendid white marble to ensure that I kept this darkness in. Over time, I came to believe that my inner Minas Tirith was me. I was the fortress. I believed I had to be strong, never show weakness, always appear perfectly happy. Because even a single crack in the wall would let the darkness show.
Or was it even "darkness"? To me, it never felt that way. To me, it felt natural—something vital. And yet, the outside world seemed to shy away from it. But not my faithful guardian—my beast—who defended that stronghold with fury and wrath.
"I'll devour you alive if you ever dare to enter my haven again. Which I graciously allowed you to enter once. No more! You are vermin."
But I wasn't aware of my beast. I wasn't even fully aware of what was living inside this fortress. My beast was. And it made me believe that the walls, patterns, and shields were all of my own creation—and over time, they became who I was. My identity. It lingered just outside the corners of my conscious mind, laying in wait, ever vigilant, ready to spew its fiery breath at anyone who dared to violate my trust and lay siege to my fortress.
I did let people in. I let friends wander through the first few gates of the many walls I had. These were the ones I felt safe with or felt a kinship with. But they were never allowed to enter the inner walls of my mighty stronghold. Some acquaintances had special hall passes to specific rooms inside my castle—like the music room, the art gallery, or even the spiritual library. But they were never left alone. They were carefully watched and thrown out the moment they violated my trust.
Fire at the Gates
The first time I can remember my beast showing its claws and teeth was when I was sixteen years old. I was in a private singing lesson with a man who told me, firmly and almost accusingly, that I needed to ask money for the creative projects I loved doing. It wasn't a suggestion. It felt like a command, a reshaping of my joy into something transactional. I exploded. Not in a gentle protest, but with a fire I did not know I had. It was something wild, something ancient, something horrifying—and deeply mine.
For decades after that, the beast—my dragon—became the fortress, the guardian. It became me. It reshaped itself constantly, trying to anticipate what others wanted, hoping for connection, love, and safety. And at the same time, I tried to tame this beast. I knew it was there to protect me, but it was also a creature people feared. Someone dear to me once told me she was scared of me sometimes—not because of what I said, but because of how my expression would change. As if my whole face was no longer mine. She saw the fire in my eyes. The burning anger.
I believe that was my beast, rising to the surface, telling people that they had already overstepped too many boundaries. And this was the limit. Back off. You don't want to face me.
The Guardian Revealed
So I tried to control my beast—to ignore it and hold it down for as long as I could. Like Kindred in Vampire: The Masquerade, I tried to suppress it, the way they suppress their inner Beast to avoid revealing their true nature—the monster they fear they really are. That thing that threatens to strip away the last fragments of their humanity.
But unlike the Beast in Vampire: The Masquerade, my beast wasn’t trying to seduce me into monstrosity. It was there to protect my true nature. It felt the need to build wall after wall to shield me from pain and filter out the people who would take advantage of me. It helped me survive, and I am thankful for that. These days, I can look my beast in the eyes and welcome it as a friend. Because my beast, my dragon, is me. Together we walk over the many walls of my fortress and wander the many hallways, alleys, and chambers of that stronghold we built together. Inspecting which walls can be torn down, which gateways can be left open, and which doors require a key. Not out of fear or pain, but out of self-acceptance, love, and respect for me.
“I don't need to be splendid, shiny, and sparkly. I don't need to morph into something I think others want to see. I am a being of chaos, and through that chaos I'll find my own way. I'll create, I'll destroy, and I'll explore all the nooks and crannies until I return to my inner sanctum of peace and quiet.”
