Self-portrait. Painting Pink dress. Azazel.

An illustration for my series of books "Smoldering Hell":

The author.Today https://author.today/work/series/11980

The wattpad https://www.wattpad.com/user/AzazelAlKhalifa

The painting "Pink dress", self-portrait. The technique of oil painting (digital).

In the picture you can observe one of the typical Balls of Satan. I, Archdemon Azazel, disguised as a woman, stand in the middle of numerous archdemon officials who look at me with interest, with a secret desire to prevail over beauty and grace.

No, this is not a specific moment from my life in its true incarnation, because I have never gone to our Balls in a dress or heels: it would be tantamount to suicide or spiritual striptease - to appear as a true Victim to Predators. This painting is rather an attempt to express my inner experience and the living of self-perceptions and feelings that I experience among our officials; at the Balls of Shaitan, there is a well-known law of "Truce", which, like the Balls themselves, I talked about in an article about the Cult of Power (rus): https://dzen.ru/a/Z0D6qo58MChaloBe

The Law of the "Truce" prohibits those present at the Ball from attacking each other in any way during the Ball. So, "you can look, you can't touch." So they look, they look, boring into their gazes intently: sarcastic, appreciative, eager. I often went to balls in a frock coat that has neither clasps nor buttons, and I tied my hair in a ponytail. It has always acted as a kind of psychological defense, as if by doing so I was hiding my essence and beauty behind a shield through which they would not be able to break through in order to desecrate beauty by tearing my soul to shreds. But I mean, the way I was seen, despite my subterfuges: not with my hair pulled back in a ponytail, and not in a closed frock coat: that's how I was seen, as I depicted myself in the picture, and as I am, however. And the observers understand that I love to dress up as a woman, they know about my special features, they seem to grin arrogantly, but there is interest and lust in the eyes. They look at the desired beauty, which acts as a burning provocation, attracts, irritates with its sexuality, but they cannot do anything, because it is forbidden to attempt on each other at the Ball. That's what I've depicted in this painting.

Also, this pink dress is unchanged - fuchsia women's clothing, my favorite dress, and I like its color more than others; knowing about my preference, Mammon and Lucifugus, Bael, Adramelech and Nahema once mocked me: at a fateful moment, which I have already depicted more than once in illustrations, in Mammon's captivity in Purgatory, they forcibly put on me just such a dress, on purpose, of course. But despite this, it has not ceased to be my favorite, for me it has become a kind of symbol of my fetish - repeatedly washed with tears, thought out by countless thoughts and introspection, because sometimes a man, being a man, cannot accept that can be used as a woman , and he cannot get along with his own passions, It's full of contradictions. After all, how has it always been?

"Languishing from the stench of soul fusion,

Taking in an alien will,

I'm not a woman, but I'm not a man either,

And the ridiculous Something that's going to die from pain."

That's how I talk about myself in one of my songs. "Ridiculous Something" - yes, I've been tormented by such thoughts for a long time. You can read these thoughts in some of my previous texts. From my article about the archdemon Mammon (rus)(https://dzen.ru/a/ZttkDIZPxyrRliNs ):

"This is one of the most terrible and painful moments that I have had to go through, and which certainly affected my spiritual health, left new wounds and opened up old ones that, it would seem, have already been worked out and forgotten – but no, they will not disappear anywhere, they will never be forgotten, because you cannot get rid of them from your heart yes, from the mind, because they will open again, it is only necessary for something disgustingly accurate, well-aimed, to stick straight there, into these very wounds, and to stir them up as if they had not healed at all. And my self-torment is inexhaustible, my self-contempt is inexhaustible, let reason, logic, repeat everything intelligently, judiciously, the wounds of the heart are deaf to the arguments of reason, I have been through this, a proud man and a narcissist, hundreds of hundreds of times, the same from the very Beginning, as if the film was jammed in a cassette and in a circle twists: "you are insignificant and weak! You are insignificant and weak!" Why? Because there was someone stronger? But what is stronger? And is that power so important? Oh, no, I do not hear the arguments of reason, cannot command the heart by any means, be it, this means, even thrice wise! It's all one thing: power. (continuation in the comment)