I've put my arms through the cogs too many times to count. All recoil at grisly tasks, but I've become a habitual martyr. Few things scare me anymore. Why would they? What is possibly left in the world that could elicit more than casual nonchalance?
It's the logical end of things. When the accusations start coming down, anything more than distinct apathy is considered too emotional. Any kind of sincerity is just immature. Could I have expected any better?
It's a logical end to the madness, that I should be expected to reach out and offer my heart, when doing so puts me at so much risk. It's theft, whatever the excuse. You cannot give what's yours with the intention of never getting it back, but in essence, that's what love is. Theft.
I've heard it wrapped in all manner of excuses before. Sex is not love. Money is not love. A warm body is not love. All these things we try to equate it with are just material, tangible things that just end up replacing it. It cannot possibly exist in the world we've made trying to pursue it. But in the same breath - if this grand objective cannot exist in this world, how is it that I exist?
How is it that after having everything good beaten, stabbed, and stolen out of me, this broken husk of a human being pulled strength enough from somewhere to haul himself first to his knees, and then to his feet? What has he to fear, who has seen hell through the eyes of passion?
What has he to fear, who has seen the worst of humanity, and still yet stood and walked on?
Not much, and that is perhaps the problem. Because born of the past, and of the theft, is a misanthropic parody of who I am. Where there was once a shining knight, quick to aid and assist, there's now an embittered cynic who searches for worth in anything, but does not find it.
What champion is this? What monster now wears my skin as his own and speaks with my voice?
No comments:
Post a Comment