The inflammed villain came to me as a 14 year babe, and knows no surrender by my 23.  It is the bane of my existence.

When I was 15-18, my skin was pretty much always in ruins; dilapidated and disfigured like a burn victim.  It hurt me so deeply in many ways to look like that.  It made me want to hide always.  It made me always feel corrupted.  Even as my skin improved, I retained these deeply held insecurities.  I wished, if only, that I could wake each day comfortable with who I am, without fear for what insanity was always brewing inside of me.

I suppose that without deep-seated feelings of exclusion, things may have played out a bit differently for me.  Had I not spent so much of my life in disgust and shame, I wonder, then, would I have been more complacent in my affairs?  Would I have led a dormant life, unquestioning and easily trampled?

On some level, I suppose, the burrowing villain emboldened me.  The feeling of disgust, futility in my existence made me furious.  It made me want to fucking eviscerate all who are so vain, so closed minded as to judge another by their appearance, creed, or poise.  It made me want always to heal the lepers and hermits; the friends of the shadows I had come to know so well.

Great Work
Moral Mysteries