When I was younger, I used to think that monsters were under beds, in closets, stomping up the stairs or just outside the shower curtains. As I got older, I stopped thinking that monsters existed and just believed they were part of childhood. For most of my twenties, I stopped thinking about monsters altogether. But, in my later twenties, I started to wonder if I was turning into a monster, and if monsters were what happened to those who weren’t careful enough. Now I know differently.
There are monsters everywhere. Some of them are even my friends, beautiful and mad. But the monster I detest the most is the monster that hides under a facade of gentleness, only seeking pleasure out of its own sense of right, and heartless. Behind the salt tears is a pure hunger that changes course as it is sated. Always hunting. It is a kind of animal desire embodied, with little brain nor heart to support. But perhaps the beast is to be pitied. Who knows if, looking in the mirror, it can see itself for the monster it truly is. And how tiring it must be to always hunt. Or even worse, the fault would lie with me, blind to see under its soft pelt out of weakness. Or perhaps that even I, hiding under my smooth skin, am wolfishly fanged and has made a beast in my own image. Oh foolish child. Beware the beast. Do not fear it, but know that the wolf unveiled can be fled swiftly.
Such is all I can understand of the wolf and this be my last word on the subject. "Whereof one cannot speak one must remain silent."
...
