I have my father's nose and all his rage, but I have my mother's face and her grief. Rage, I have learned to wear. My mother's grief, however, folds my spine and lives beneath my ribs. It gets heavier and heavier.
god said:
GOD MADE YOU. GOD DOES NOT CARE IF YOU ARE “GUILTY” OR NOT.
i said:
I CARE IF I AM GUILTY!
I CARE IF I AM GUILTY!…
god was silent.
everything was SILENT.
i lay back down in the snow.
« i hate sunrose! i hate bartylus! » Do you also hate happiness? Do you yearn for the scorching embers in the depths of hell? Do you grimace at beautiful sunsets? Tell me do you hate invoking pure joy in your body?
he couldn’t quite grasp why rage coursed through his veins like a relentless river. he was still young, of course. it clawed at him, ripped him apart until he was nothing more than furrowed brows and snarled teeth.