You Dont Know Me Any More Then I Know You

Oh people think they know me, but they are all wrong. We all have our reasons for doing the things we do, and the psychologist-wannabes of the world all try, albeit futilely, to understand these reasons.

But really, who can completely understand another? Theres no one who can completely read another like a book, simply because humans ARNT books.

But ah, Ive been wronged before; When things appear awry, and the little angel cries and people flock to her, trying to soothe her and alleviate her pain. No one cares for the devil, for he HAS to be the one causing her pain; What other reason could there be? No one bats an eyelid for his pain, for he appears strong on the outside. And the mortal infidels sometimes try to play hero, try to play mediator in this Heavenly battle that does not concern them at all.

Such is the way of life for us.

But amidst the sorrow that we wallow in, God has given us beauty and love to guide us always. Look at the gardener! A wrinkled old dame, frolicking in her gardens, trimming her verges, tottering around and snipping off the offending flora with pinpoint precision.

Ah! What was that again? Snipping off you say? Well thats just it then, isnt it! A plant, a form of life, just like us humans, might sometimes be plagued and afflicted by all manner of diseases or decay. The gardener, in all her wisdom, removes this desecration of its beauty before it ravages the plant like a cancer.

But is it not cruel, you say? That it's arm or leg should be amputated with or without its consent?

Nay, my friend. It is for the greater good, for if that which hurts the plant so much, threatening it even with oblivion, is not removed, then only one end is certain for it. If it were cursed and blessed with the dichotomy that manifests itself as our nerves, then it would scream and scream till it could scream no more, but then, it would be alive.

It would be alive.

So then our heroine, saint of her little garden kingdom, turns away, content that once again her backyard Shangri-La is saved. But little does she know that the plant curses her.

ultima.

*
magna res est vocis et silentii temperamentum.