Living with the devil.

To dwell in the shadow of darkness is to acknowledge the duality of human nature. Within every breast, a struggle unfolds between the virtuous and the vile. The choice, dear friend, lies not in the presence of these opposing forces, but in the path we choose to tread. Shall we succumb to the whispers of vice, or rise to the radiance of virtue? The decision, ultimately, rests with us.

In the grand tradition of Gothic literature, Oscar Wilde's masterpiece written about my life, reminds us that the human condition is a complex tapestry of light and darkness. I, Dorian Gray, the Byronic figure, exemplifies the eternal struggle. My Faustian bargain, exchanging youth for corruption, serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of unchecked vanity and desire. As we navigate the twilight hours of our own lives, let us not forget the wisdom of the ages: that true beauty lies not on the surface of the skin, but in the soul. The mirror of our conscience reflects the truth of our character, and it is there that we must confront the depths of our own morality.

As we ponder the dichotomy of human nature, we find ourselves entwined in a perpetual struggle between virtue and vice. The whispered temptations of darkness often prove alluring, threatening to consume our very essence. Yet, it is in these moments of reckoning that we are faced with the ultimate question: shall we surrender to the shadows, or rise to the light? ( see my journal entry about the subject "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." )

 My tragic tale, written in his book, serves as a poignant reminder of the perils of unchecked desire and vanity. My descent into madness and depravity is a testament to the destructive power of allowing our baser impulses to govern our actions. And yet, even in the midst of such turmoil, there lies a glimmer of hope – a chance for redemption, a possibility of reform.

For we are not bound by our circumstances, but rather by our choices. It is the path we choose to tread that defines us, that shapes our character, and ultimately, our destiny. In the words of Lord Henry, 'To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all' ( see my journal entry about the subject ). Let us strive to truly live, to embody the beauty of virtue, and to cultivate the richness of a life well-lived. The whispered temptations of darkness still whisper my name, tempting me to surrender to their seductive charms. Yet, I am resolute in my determination to rise above, to cultivate the light within me, and to let it guide me through life's labyrinthine corridors.

My actions due to my fate, led me to be reminded of the devastating consequences of allowing our baser impulses to govern our actions. My portrait kept away from prying eyes, a symbol of my later corruption, serves as a stark reminder of the destructive power of unchecked desire. And yet, even in the midst of such turmoil, I sense a glimmer of hope – a chance for redemption, a possibility of reform.

For I am not bound by my circumstances, but rather by the choices I make. But is that true? I was not this Dorian that I am today until my unknowing pact with the devil. It is the path I choose to tread that defines me, that shapes my character, and ultimately, my destiny? Or is it my fate regardless of choice? Are we born as good or evil? Or do we truly have a choice in the matter. Life has it’s circumstances, that forces us to choose.   As I navigate the complexities of life, I conclude ‘to be and let it be’. What is good or evil but the opinion of others. Am I not the author of my being? I possess wealth, health, beauty and eternal life, what do I care about others’ opinions of me. The portrait bares my sins not I.

In this journey of self-discovery, I strive to truly live, to embody the beauty of virtue, and to cultivate the richness of a life well-lived.

The weight of my secrets bears down upon me, a crushing burden that threatens to consume my very soul. I am bound to the devil himself, a pact forged in the depths of vanity and desire. The portrait, that cursed canvas that hangs in the recesses of my attic, has become my constant companion, my confidant, and my most merciless tormentor.

It taunts me, whispers sweet nothings in my ear, urging me down the path of decadence and sin. The brushstrokes seem to dance with malevolent glee, as if the very essence of wickedness has been distilled upon the canvas. And I, a helpless moth drawn to the flame, am powerless to resist its allure.                      But who was I before that fateful day when my portrait was painted? A youth, innocent and pure, untouched by the corrupting influence of the world. I was a blank slate, waiting for the brushstrokes of experience to shape me into the person I would become. And then, it happened – the artist's hand moved across the canvas, and I was reborn, my fate sealed.

London sees me as a vision of beauty, a golden Adonis, but I know the truth. The portrait reveals the true depths of my depravity, the hideousness that lies within. It is a mirror to my soul, a reflection of the corruption that festers within, and yet, I am powerless to look away. In those moments when the mask slips, and the façade cracks, I glimpse the monster I have become. The painting seems to mock me, its eyes gleaming with a knowing intelligence, as if it delights in my suffering. And I am trapped, forever bound to this hellish cycle of sin and self-loathing, with no escape from the prison of my own making. London may whisper about my beauty, my charm, and my wit, but I am a slave to my desires, a puppet dancing on the strings of my own vanity. The portrait has become my master, and I, the willing servant, forever doomed to serve its dark and twisted will.

The eternal conundrum that hath puzzled sages and scholars for centuries. What drives the average mortal to commit acts of virtue and villainy? Do they, like myself, harbor a dark secret, a skeleton hidden behind the façade of respectability?

I ponder the lives of those around me, their faces a mask of innocence, their eyes gleaming with a superficial light. Do they, too, possess a portrait in the attic of their soul, a reflection of their innermost thoughts and desires? Or do they navigate the complexities of life with a guileless heart, unencumbered by the weight of conscience? What excuses do they conjure to justify the surrender to base impulses, to indulge in the fleeting pleasures of sin and debauchery? Is it the whisper of circumstance, the siren's call of opportunity, or the fatalistic notion that their nature is fixed, immutable to the influences of virtue and reason? And what of those who claim to be paragons of virtue, their lives a testament to morality and righteousness? Do they, too, harbor secrets, hidden from the prying eyes of the world? Or are they indeed the fortunate ones, blessed with a temperament that shuns the abyss of depravity, and instead, walks the path of righteousness with steadfast purpose?

I am consumed by the enigma of human  nature, and the more I observe, the more I am perplexed. The portrait in my attic, that ghastly reflection of my own corruption, serves as a constant reminder of the duality that lies within. And yet, I am drawn to the question: what lies hidden in the recesses of the average person's soul?

Is it fear, that great motivator, which restrains them from succumbing to the baser passions? Or is it a genuine desire to do good, to follow the dictates of conscience and live a life of virtue? I am at a loss to comprehend the workings of the human heart, and the more I ponder, the more I am ensnared in the labyrinth of my own darkness.

The portrait, that cursed canvas, does it possess a conscience, a spark of divine awareness? Or is it merely a reflection of my own soul, a vessel for the darkness that lies within? I am consumed by the notion that the portrait has taken on a life of its own, a malevolent entity that feeds on my corruption. As I gaze upon its visage, I am struck by the realization that it has become a part of me, a manifestation of my innermost self. The portrait is my shadow, my dark twin, my constant companion in this waltz of sin and depravity. And yet, I am tormented by the question: am I the master of this canvas, or is it the other way around?

The portrait's ability to absorb my transgressions has become an addiction, a fatal allure that draws me deeper into the abyss. I commit my deeds, whatever their nature, without consequence, while the portrait bears the mark of my guilt. It is a Faustian bargain, wherein I trade my soul for the fleeting pleasures of life, and the portrait serves as the ledger, recording each and every sin. But at what cost?

And what of the devil's role in this macabre dance? Is he the one who has tricked me, who has led me down this path of destruction? Or is it merely the portrait, a symbol of my own corruption, a reflection of the darkness that lies within? I am torn asunder by the uncertainty, unable to discern reality from illusion.

The fumes of opium, how they cloud my mind and befuddle my senses. Perhaps, indeed, it is but a trick of the brain, a phantasm born of excessive indulgence. I am not one to be swayed by fanciful notions of the supernatural, no, not I. My friend Adrian, with his fervent beliefs in the afterlife and ghostly apparitions, would have me think otherwise, but I remain skeptical.

And yet, the portrait... Ah, that cursed canvas! I am convinced that it has always been as it is, a masterpiece of art, frozen in time. Is it not possible that my own guilt-ridden conscience, fueled by the decay of my own morality, has led me to imagine its corruption? The lines, the wrinkles, the very visage of decay that seems to spread its dark tendrils across the canvas – might it not all be a product of my own fevered imagination? But who can say? Who can confirm or deny the truth of my perceptions? I am alone in this labyrinthine world, with only my own thoughts to keep me company. The portrait, it seems, is my sole confidant, my mirror to the soul. And what does it reveal? A monster, a creature of corruption and decay, or merely the reflection of my own tortured psyche?

I am torn asunder by doubt and uncertainty. Is it the portrait that has changed, or is it I who have altered? The world around me seems to spin on, indifferent to my plight, as I stumble through the darkness, searching for answers that may never come. The opium, it seems, has done its work, and I am left to face the abyss, alone and unaided. In this state of befuddlement, I turn to the portrait, that ghastly reflection of my own mortality. What secrets do you hold, dear canvas? What truths do you whisper in the darkness of my chamber? Alas, it remains mute, a silent witness to my descent into madness. And I, Dorian Gray, am left to ponder the mystery, forever trapped in this prison of my own making.

The eternal thoughts that plague my troubled mind….. What, pray tell, constitutes good and evil in this mortal coil? Is it a matter of divine decree, or merely a product of human perception? And who, might I ask, assumes the mantle of arbiter? The self-righteous, with their pious pronouncements and sanctimonious smirks? Ah, no. I think not.

Is it the rigid adherence to the Ten Commandments that distinguishes the virtuous from the vile? Do those who follow the letter of the law, who pray and praise with fervent devotion, thereby earn their place among the righteous? And those who falter, who succumb to the whispers of temptation, are they forthwith condemned to the ranks of the wicked? But what of the secrets we keep, the hidden thoughts and desires that lurk in the recesses of our minds? Are we to be judged solely on our actions, or on the very fabric of our being? Is it the deed itself that constitutes evil, or the intent that precedes it? And what of those who merely think ill, but do not act? Do they escape the censure of the moralist?

And who, pray tell, assumes the role of judge, jury, and executioner? Is it the collective voice of society, with its arbitrary standards and capricious morality? Or is it the still, small voice within, that whispers of right and wrong in the darkness of our own hearts?

I know that I am a creature of contradictions. My outward visage, a mask of beauty and innocence, belies the corruption that festers within. The portrait, that ghastly reflection of my soul, reveals the truth that lies hidden beneath the surface. But what of those who wear their masks with greater skill? Might they not be equally adept at concealing their true nature? (see my journal entry about the subject “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players”).

In this hall of mirrors, where reflections of virtue and vice are distorted and unclear, who can claim to possess the truth? We are all of us wanderers in the darkness, stumbling towards the light, or perhaps, further into the shadows. And it is in this uncertainty that we find our greatest freedom – and our most profound terror.

What say you dear reader?

“Do we inherit evil? Or do we choose to become it?” Young Gray and a portrait of his grand father Lord Kelso.

Dorian Gray of his own volition.