And The Monster Was Me

It’s the clarity that comes with the current that flows in the river of melancholia; transports me to the core of my insecurities, my misdemeanours and misanthropy.
Chameleon.
Fight-picker.
Enraged and disappointed.
But who am I to say I’m right, to declare my vision clear?
Am I the man you see here in this garden of earthly delights?
Am I the man who etches his virus on the virtual world?
Where is my morality when at my core there is a seed of hate?
Where my ethics when all I see is stupidity?
Where is hope when the destination is so clear and so inevitable?
I see my face reflected in the windows of passing trains filled with commuters self-medicating on glowing screens and I wonder who I am?
I hear my voice in the echo chambers of my own medication and I wonder who I am?
Down the years of unforgiving, of moving on, of becoming something new, I retain but one thing: the book of judgement whose pages are strewn with the names of almost everyone I know and millions that I don’t.
A list of names to which I must now add my own.

Then I ran across a monster
who was sleeping by a tree
And I looked and frowned
And the monster was me
~ The Width of a Circle