Innocence proves nothing. No one is safe, nothing is sacred. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. We are the last line of defence. Where fear has gone only we will remain. We will burn our own to hold the red line, it is the last line to ever hold.

I fear the difficult thing is to be honest. I honestly want to tell people what I feel, but in a "civilised society", some truths are not tolerated. To tell what I honestly feel and want is difficult at best, something that will land me in IMH or prison at worst. If I struggle with honesty in the big and vital things, how can I count on myself to be honest in the small things? Speaking about honesty, how many people actually care? Our desire is to flee from the unpalatable truth. I want to be honest, but so help me, I find it difficult to be honest with some of the people that matter. I know I should not be so concerned with such trifling matters, but I do fall victim to bleeding heart syndrome you know. I am not devoid of emotion, even if my difficulty in controlling my facial expressions makes me seem more disturbing than I really am.

You can say that I am ungrateful, that I lack gratitude. Bother not; do you think I have failed to notice that? I struggle daily with the notion that I am flawed, a failure, a demonstration of things wrong and a would-be defiler of the pure and sanctified. Is it the nature of loathsome monsters to wish for the outstretched hand of better beings, or am I condemned to be the viper that kills the farmer in that old aesop? If you condemn me I cannot rationally hold it against you. If you prick me I may bleed, but that does not make me a "good man" any more than a common blood colour makes a * seditious comments self-censored*

Maybe it is the realisation of this cruel truth that makes me so delightfully/disturbingly, inappropriately bipolar. Does it? Maybe my insistence is actually causing this to occur where there was no real problem. The self is almost always the harshest critic; he who can believe in him who believes in himself is the strongest man, whether or not he is necessarily the moral man. I cannot help thinking that my occasional indulgence in song is some mark of insanity rather than a pathetic longing for affirmation. Maybe behind all the growling, self-mutilation and vicious head-banging of metalheads is an inability to express the self well?

Perhaps the more I say the more I damn myself. Is that not the fate of monsters, though, that honesty becomes self-destructive, and for the ones struggling to hold back their malevolent natures it is far more beneficial to stay safely in the shadows than reveal themselves to ignorant, violent humanity. I know we humans hate on our own species a real lot, but the fact is that racism is still a problem that has not been fully quelled.

Vile fantasies. I keep so much to myself that I may let it eat only at me rather than stumble others, but I wonder if this is the right thing to do, or is it preferable to let others be hurt rather than let me alone be consumed? Such a thought should be a mark of evil, but then you already know that I am a monster.