Once upon a time...

8 may 2012 Once upon a time I was a slayer. Protector of the innocent, provider to any in need. Now I am the dragon. Breather of fire, scorcher of souls.  We all know what a heart looks like, so why is there confusion when one is pulled out? Furthermore, how can I disown a blood drenched hand after recognizing it as my own? Something surreal yet simple... denied existence by its creator who suddenly disowns the abomination only to save himself. Unprecedented and premeditated selfishness.  I have never met a person as selfish as I am. As I see her eyes change, a small piece of her spirit leave her body, I begin to wonder how many times this has been done. How can a person be so strong for others when their chest has been picked out repeatedly.  Scar tissue over scar tissue hides and protects a faint, small amount of life force. The rest has been picked away by other dragons, thieves and scavengers.  The difference between wrong and evil: hope.  Wrong justifies, avoids truth and responsibility, yet admits change. Evil is destructive in much the same way, but does not seek correction. No one wants to  feel like or be labeled as an "evil person". i imagine most of us force ourselves into repentance after we've been caught, rather than  admit what our true motives were.   Recently, I've begun to feel that understanding is the most important step in forgiveness, tolerance or dismissal.  People that have been wronged deserve to know the truth in its entirety, otherwise they may suffer more than once for the same action.  Such negativity and finality are difficult to  break free from.  I want to feel that there is some way to correct my actions so that I am not condemned. I imagine others feel the same way (or at least similar).  How many spirits have I crushed, lives destroyed? Which mask was I wearing when i cut into people's souls?  How much of the past can I correct? And maybe most importantly: why? I imagine the pain left inside her ricocheted within a shell of existence. Food lost flavor, water ran dry. Life seemed to lose meaning in a momentary pause. Hope sat in a corner, eagerly awaiting a cause, while fear loomed on the approaching horizon. A 50 year storm that no one could have foreseen or in any way prepared for, yet she has already built a shelter for us. Thank you my savior, My life belongs to you.