What is it about us that makes us so violent?
Not in an every-single-person-in-the-world-is-going-to-buy-a-gun-and-kill-innocent-people kind of way, but in an oh-my-gosh-I-suck
kind of way.
lie you have ever told yourself as a
fist slamming against your soul.
I am not a violent person. I cried when I hit a bird while driving, and I cried harder when I saw a mother hit her little boy at the zoo. I can't kill spiders, both out of fear and out of sorrow for crushing them. I can't tell someone how I think because I'm afraid I'll hurt the person's feelings. I don't like conflict of any kind -- yet conflict has entrenched itself in my brain.
My soul is black and blue with lies.
Black and blue, splotched and scarred. A jumbled residue of impact over a decade.
It began one morning when I looked in the mirror and became aware of myself as flawed -- as imperfect. No longer the little angel who thought only about ponies and princes and puffy ball gowns. No longer daddy's princess and mommy's little helper.
It began one morning and it
I would say that mirrors are the culprit -- with no mirror, no reason to pick things apart. But it's
more than a mirror.
It's the mind.
The mind recognizing self as lesser,
seeing pictures and programs of better, of ideal.
The mind believing those things -- believing the lies and accepting them as fact. The mind punching and smacking and hurting
the soul in which it resides.
The soul is strong -- so is the mind.
Battered, battered souls and shattered, shattered minds -- why?
Why are we so destructive? Why do we kill and kill what we are in favor of what we think we should be? Because think we should be may never be who we are -- or who we are meant to be.