Brainchild

From the lips of this tortured creature come words of redemption; or so they would be, were but redemption within the reach of my stunted limbs. For within my heavy heart lies the burdensome knowledge of my doom. It is a lesson taught to me by my life, the great tragedy, and by every one of its actors. By trial and error have I learned. Ever on trial, ever in error.

And thus is the verdict ever pronounced: Guilty, guilty, guilty. Weak, evil man. Every word from the lips of this tortured creature serve only to hurt and destroy. Is it any wonder I loath myself so?

Wretched. Weak, I say, and evil. For evil is begotten of weakness, its mother fear. She fills me, that dark comforter, that poisonous bosom. I am her prisoner.

But wherein does this fault lie? Is it in physical strength that I find myself wanting? Or is it perhaps cognitive power I lack? Am I ridiculed and shunned, disrespected and dismissed?

No. When looking at my reflection, such as shown to me by the fitfully flickering computer screen, none of those illnesses are what ails me. Seemingly, my every facet is unblemished.

Yet is this so? No! Of course not! Mine is of a subtler kind, a flaw hidden deep inside, visible only when the light is refracted at one certain angle, such as at the hour of twilight. And this flaw, this fault line, makes the whole of me brittle, ready to shatter at a touch, into a thousand jagged pieces that could rip you into shreds.

And maybe that's what makes me so beautiful.