I wrote a letter to a beloved, one who is placed upon a pedestal. In it I spoke about childhood and all the things I wish I had not done yet I spared no moment of regret, for they helped shape the freak I am today.

There is a fear in her for she spoke of failure; but she has named her fear and I shall give it a face. For all the things she wished she had done; dreams that were left abandoned in pursuit of golden feathers… ah, but the dreams are coming back to haunt her.

Why do we torture ourselves with a mental scalpel, perfectly designed to self-mutilate? Slicing an image once pristine and beautiful into a bloodied mess, carelessly tossed aside.

It is like taking a blade to a budding rose and cutting it in half; just to watch it bleed its beauty away. In its withered, blackened remains, we will find what we were looking for yet we fail to see that we never gave it a chance to bloom. By our own hand, failure was engineered right from the start.

I find self-fulfilling prophecies as dangerous as insanities uttered by mad men and charlatans. Only the ones we give birth to in our minds hold great power over us; and we water them with our believes until they turn into oak trees.

The beast was here all along…

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