There are only three things that
can turn man into dust: The power of God, the inability to properly understand
freedom, and the realization of the fact that what had been dead, had always
been alive.
This had begun
some time ago when I had looked in the mirror, and I’d seen the series of lies
that I had been carefully fashioning around my bloodied flesh. I spoke of
Satan, and I’d said I had killed it, when I had merely paid no heed to it. Then
It was a couple of days ago, when I had realized that I am more than just a
bundle of faults. I am a Fault, always less and never more. Because I have
collected everything that had scarred me and buried it in my soil, then I let
its roots grow until I could feel them. And it wasn’t until I had felt them
that I had realized how idiotic I was. How idiotic I had been.
It was when I looked in the
mirror and I saw, how I had never looked myself square in the eye; that the
sensation had all seemed so foreign; that I was still a seed among roses; that
I was never what I had announced myself to be; that my smile had always been
fleeting—that I had never smiled to mirrors
And it was when I looked in the
mirror that I had realized, how I had despised my skin, and how I wished to
tear my core and yell at it—scream at it for being so menacing, so cruel and
silly and gullible. But who am I to put the blame on what I had made? Who is a
man, who blames a storm that he had built?
I am writing this down because I
am with the Frauds and the Insecure, and even though we do not deserve to be
heard, I am writing this down because it simply must be written down.
