Let me tell you what I know

There are tablets somewhere. Marble tablets. Marble - hot, cold rock - beautiful because it is impure. Those swirls and veins, those things that make it look alive, are born out of random specks of minerals who lost their way. Or found it.

The truth is written on those tablets, truth that is not influenced by time or tendency or preference. It is not a version or a perspective.

Let me tell you what I know. Let me tell you what is etched in stone. It is not what you think.

You won't like it. Not because it's bad, but because it isn't. Anyway, it is neutral, as the truth always is. But it can only be seen through the eyes of innocence. And that is the part you will not like. You will not like what you will have to give up to be able to see it.

1000 reasons

An incredible scene of colors. Graceful smudges and smears. This is your painting. Destiny in every stroke - nothing could be changed.

Grand and noble and bigger than you, that's what it is. Of course you're standing too close to it, you know this, the colors are just so beautiful and they take you so far in. You finally take a step back, museum distance. It's not as intense, but it's still beautiful. It is art.

And now? You're across the room. It's smaller, life-size. It's not the centerpiece, it's not what draws your attention when you walk into the room. It's still beautiful but not for the same reasons.

You had only ever imagined one reason. You found an army of reasons. Ranked, ready to fall back into line when the exercise is over.

You won't take it off the wall, it's still art. But you have a whole collection now.

Silent Siblings

Invisible members of the family. Not like real brothers and sisters. You know what those are like, no such thing as a half or a whole. They are always there, even when they are not. No, these siblings are unheard and unseen and unclaimed. Still there since you can remember - although you would've call them something else at that time - you know they cannot be your invention. They must have belonged to someone, been someone's responsibility. And yet they are clearly uncared for. Your mistake, or maybe not, was realizing that you were related. You can't go back from that. You can't unrelate yourself. Believe me, I've tried.

So now you need to listen, you have to see. And while they don't talk about you, they do.

You're back in 5th grade, it's your first dissection. But now you are the frog. You are both horrified and fascinated as you watch the scalpel open you up. You observe and realize that even observation is participation.

Idle hands

It is a threat you have known very well for a long time. You have brought it to its knees many times over - not because you are a skilled warrior - you are not - you are rudimentary at best. But simply because you were shown how, you were given the tools, so long ago. So long ago that the weapons you use feel like a part of you and the ritual kill feels like home. Metal and stone your skin and bones. Blood and the silence that follows a fire in the hearth.

You once saw a storm in a single raindrop. And must now accept that it is possible, probable even, that this threat may not be as dangerous as it appears. The danger, you realize, is your own. But you cannot imagine what you will do with your hands if they are no longer holding weapons.