Love returned had caused a funny sensation in his heart. It was the most curious of emotions; if he were to touch it, it tingled; if he were to poke it, it screamed in agony. Knowing not what to do with it, he finally fashioned from it a breathtakingly, devastatingly handsome double-edged sword. It was sharp enough to slice a strand of spiderweb into two perfect halves down the middle and shiny enough to reflect the sun one hundred thousand times more.
Yet, there was something more wonderous than the fashioning of this magnificent sword was happening inside his heart. The place now made vacant by the disappearing pain was gradually being seduced by revenge. Revenge made him angry. Revenge made him wish others ill. He wanted the beautiful sword to bleed them, reduce them into an excruciating mess. And, it made him feel good.
So he did. Remorselessly. Unabashedly. Illogically. The sight of the flowing blood made him grin.
But soon he discovered weals, cuts and wounds on his own arms and legs, face too. He had forgotten that his sword of pain had two equally dangerous edges. Slowly his whole body was tattooed with scars from unfought battles. He, however, did not realize this until he attained a great age and children and grandchildren of his own.
His progeny, blinded by the sword's brilliance, wanted it exclusively for himself or herself. He, however, before they could make their claims, understood at last that the people he had hurt were no different from his own self. That very moment, the sword shattered into millions and millions of minuscule shards, each still as sharp and shiny as their original. The pieces, left to themselves, were scattered by unknowing winds far and wide.
Histories later, all of us have inherited those shards. All of us have used it too. They have caused us the scars we no longer want to explain.
Yet, there was something more wonderous than the fashioning of this magnificent sword was happening inside his heart. The place now made vacant by the disappearing pain was gradually being seduced by revenge. Revenge made him angry. Revenge made him wish others ill. He wanted the beautiful sword to bleed them, reduce them into an excruciating mess. And, it made him feel good.
So he did. Remorselessly. Unabashedly. Illogically. The sight of the flowing blood made him grin.
But soon he discovered weals, cuts and wounds on his own arms and legs, face too. He had forgotten that his sword of pain had two equally dangerous edges. Slowly his whole body was tattooed with scars from unfought battles. He, however, did not realize this until he attained a great age and children and grandchildren of his own.
His progeny, blinded by the sword's brilliance, wanted it exclusively for himself or herself. He, however, before they could make their claims, understood at last that the people he had hurt were no different from his own self. That very moment, the sword shattered into millions and millions of minuscule shards, each still as sharp and shiny as their original. The pieces, left to themselves, were scattered by unknowing winds far and wide.
Histories later, all of us have inherited those shards. All of us have used it too. They have caused us the scars we no longer want to explain.
