The artist sat shirtless under the moon. He was hurt. He hated. And even though the hate knotted
his heart, and made the deepest part of his soul ache; even so, he did not want it to stop. But it
was inevitable. The hate will cease, and with it, the pain. He’ll forget; he’ll be peaceful, and he
hated that.
“Take my mind,” he had shouted, clutching his heart; “take the pain.” Like darkness takes things
in a room. But as he sat under the light of the moon, he realized he didn’t want the pain to end.
Wondering why he wanted to hold on to the hate, even though it hurt him so much, he closed his
eyes and felt the zephyr on his skin. It became clear to him. He wanted the hate, no matter
how much pain it caused, because, and simply because, it was true. No, not only true, it was
the Truth –of him. He hated. He was Hurt. That was true. Hurt and Hating. That was him. He
Hated, he Hurt! That was the truth of him. Why should he ever forget? Why does he have to
forget?
With dried-up stalk and light from the full moon, he sought at first to write it down. But writing
to him was catharsis. And, of course, catharsis itself was the enemy. Writing would take away
the hate, and the pain, both of which he wanted so much, because, well, because they were True.
Writing would take the Truth away
