There are no monsters. No grotesque creatures that infect our darkest reaches of existence. No haunting presence lurking within our closets, or under our beds.
The true monsters dwell within us. We are the monsters. And we haunt ourselves. We're the demons that pollute our souls; the deviation of our minds. We corrode the fabric of our own stability and perfection. One thread at a time. Until our entire selves unravel, and we open up onto the world; bare and blind. Where everything waits to pervert our sanity. And we let it. Because it is our self-fulfilled prophecy to be broken.
Because, in actuality, to be whole and normal-average- would be utterly boring. And that equates to emptiness; the mundane monotony of a cliche life prescribed by society and culture. That's a special type of emptiness, a peculiar meaninglessness. And it's frightening.
We are monsters because we're afraid to be human.
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Restless Things
Poesía"I didn't realize what damage heat can do To flesh so bare So I poured you out all over me Until I was undone And shaking But after the fire has gone All that's left is ash and wilted skin So now I know Better" -The Things You Left Behind (Poetry, P...
