I watch the illusion of lights reflect and scatter confirmation shards with abandon. A world of too much bleach. Forced and expected gaiety. Injections of what-me-worry and reassurances. The white knight stands proudly and tall in his platemail of apathy and acceptance. Everything is saccharine ease.
One goes there-- to him-- to feel better.
I sit too still in my shroud of patience and darkness. The landscape here transparent with charcoal and ash. Truths laid bare and without glamour.
I sharpen a horn of shadows with a long and razored tongue. My black breastplate scarred with streaks of discipline. Few come to find me; they find they cannot stand against the discomfort of challenges. It's easy to demonize the work needed to be better.
9:51 p.m. - 2014-10-16
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