Words. The expression of human will. Its value is subordinate to its origin– the origin of the will within those words. However, these words are beholden in a casual manner– a manner that underscores the importance of such a will.
Words are a bond– one that binds us to the words that we uttered– be it on ink or by tongue. To break such a bond only diminishes your standing– causing a depreciation. I fail to understand the rationalization of those who adorn themselves with these broken words.
Did you think your deceit would remain in the shadows– to be buried along your corpse? I pity you– a person that believed that the glass you broke would revert back into its original state. Now, take your rightful place amongst the shadows that you’ve withheld your sin in.
There are some who give their words freely– without casting a second thought to the consequences of their jest. While they may claim to be the victim of another, they are foremost a victim of themselves– for their lack of consideration allowed for this situation to be manufactured.
I recognize that this will is one that becomes malleable once it separates from its origin. I know that there are those amongst us who bend the will of these words to suit their desires, perverting it– a crime against the author. Blessed with intelligence yet cursed with depravity– a will that burns without shape.
Oftentimes, we claim that these figments of will do not hurt us– I wonder, is it hubris that compels us or is it naivety? Sigh, it would be remiss of me to not come to the realization that a lack of words can also serve as a form of harm– be it intentional or unintentional.
That is why my words are wrapt around me– an attempt to preserve their value by a commitment to never renege. I would not be fit to live if I am to be cowed into reneging– I will live by my words and die by them.
They are the ink of my life– shackles that allow me to retain my senses, a consultant to my erring judgement, a self-governing conduct. I loathe breaking my word in fear that I may renege the rest of my being. It should be the exception, not a normality. I refuse to be known as a bastard who couldn’t stay true to his words– an oathbreaker.
My word is a bond that I give to a person, a chain that binds me– a token of trust. If I cannot articulate myself in a fashion that would absolve me of fault in breaking this oath– then let the articles that I’ve written serve as my method of execution.
While I may jest with my barbed words– let it known that I am conscious of every word that I have uttered as a guarantee of sorts to another. While the oath itself may be light on the tongue, the seriousness of those words are a constant.
While I may have nothing, my dignity and pride are a part of that ‘nothing’– my pride can be trampled on, it is only a kindling. But, my dignity is one that I will not tarnish– even in death, I will remain unsullied. I have no intention of knowing a version of myself that lacks this basic dignity.
I am myself, thus I am compelled to uphold this dignity along with its associated standards– to remain separate and whole at the same time. How else am I to orate the experiences of man in my distinctive writing?
Yet I do not hold these standards for the rest of man– as disappointment and sadness is a recurring theme in my eyes. My faith in them is as low as the expectations I harbor for my compatriots. Sentiments that remain unspoken– who am I to hold them to these standards? It is no fault of theirs to fail these standards, as their lives and mine are ultimately different roads.
My hope surges as I begin to believe in them– only for it to be quickly extinguished by reality’s rain. The only difference between these two knives of emotion is that this blade’s edges are serrated– cutting more on its way out. Sigh, I can no longer distinguish basic courtesy from these standards– a testament to the bar that has been set.
This malady is one that I detest– I suffer its effects when a cause doesn’t exist, perhaps being human was cause enough? Nonetheless, my logic is paralyzed as it is a natural defect that I am coming to odds against.
Sigh, a natural defect that I will not touch– as I will not be the one who will rob himself in fear of heart ache. I pride myself on my sight being multi-faceted, heaven be damned if I were to avert my eyes for a passing pain– my vision will not be interrupted for a pain that is a part of my path.
Do the bees worry about death when they sting? Then why should I close my eyes when they sting?
Man’s nature has an innate tendency to be a duality– a nature that I am not above.
I walk on the same ground as the people that I harbour these feelings for– my voice only elevated by the virtue of its clarity. I’m no better than them, my flaws are simply different from theirs. That is why my criticism lacks distinction– I have subscribed to a notion of equality, one balances its weights between internal and external.
Just as I have my virtues, others have their own virtues. Thus, I cannot commit to prejudice– as it is a concept that denies the very same potential I wield– human potential. I would rather ponder on a single person for months on end than to make an improper assessment.
I may poke light-hearted fun at such deficiencies, but it is not a factor that shall affect my judgement of others– it is their attitude and personality that affects this judgement far more. These deficiencies can be ignored or remedied– all but their character, as it serves as the foundation of a person.
While the leaves of such a person may blush with a verdant green, the branch that consists of their character is what truly determines a person– be it crystal that illuminates these leaves or a withered branch that shall crumple such leaves, waiting for a fire to put it out of its misery.
Humans are separate branches of the tree known as Humanity– the collective whole, making these branches unique yet interlinked. Our persons nourishing this great tree– allowing for the formation of new branches while the oldest amongst us fall back in the soil that birthed it, becoming a source of growth for younglings.
I cannot condemn man to silence– for my ardent belief in the potential of man is one that remains unshaken, the proof of it being me. We are a species that has evolved and subjugated our World– seizing our birthright. We have blotted the rain with our flames of passion– flames that pushed beyond human limits, the hallmark of our predecessors who broke the limits of the past.
We are a people who have lived for longer than they ought to— some who persevered out of sheer will. We were violent people from the very beginning– mammothes being felled by our ancestors. A violence that has been tamed with streams of ink– rationality being a lynchpin.
We are a people who were favoured by nature– our current supremacy being the strongest evidence. We have created entire systems of knowledge– cultivating our current stage of academia. This earth alone shall not hinder our desires– the stars shall eventually fall under our domain, to further the mantle of our birthright.
We are a people of virtue and sin– values that compliment one another. We have studied our own thoughts and ways of life to the point that we have created our own philosophies– philosophies that have aged fine in the centuries that have eclipsed its birth.
Tell me, if our past was so grand– then how grand will humanity’s future be? If I refuse to entertain this feeling of hope, then how could I exalt the potential of man– it would be no different than denying this fundamental concept.
Another matter that needs to be addressed is a question that has been asked; Will I publish my writing as a book? My response is that while I may publish a book, it will not be for the reasons that you have assumed.
It’s a single book, as I plan on passing down to the next generation fathered by me– to serve as a form of literacy inheritance. I wish to make a family heirloom from this– a book whose pages shall only grow with the lives of my branch of the bloodline.
Then again, I may remain alone– providence ensuring that I retain the title of ‘Maidenless’. Or perhaps I shall never experience the joy of siring a child. I am not a foreteller– those who peer at the secrets of Heaven. I am a human of countless others– deceased and alive.
I’ve already shown some of my writing– allowing me to gauge my potential audience. From this, I have learnt others cannot appreciate the full beauty of my words– either reading it in part or simply refusing to cast a glance.
I cannot in good conscience write for such people– instead, I will deny them the ability to become an object of my scorn. The burden of such personal enmity is one that I refuse to bear– I will both will and cause. I take no offense at this slight as they hold no fault in this matter– nonetheless, it still stings. For the time being, my writing is far from over– the idea of a book being a long-term one.
Most of my plans are measured in years– not months. However, this writing piece has marked its conclusion– I believe that its quality and length have satisfied my criteria. If I later get inspiration, I’ll incorporate it into the next piece or attach it to the caption of this piece.