by Ellen Gwin
Sometimes I feel like Frankenstein’s monster. Steadily observing, learning, and mimicking. Trying to figure out where I went wrong. I read books by some man named Milton trying to decipher heaven from hell and sinners from saints and wondering where the grey area went. If I follow the rules I’m rejected by my creator, if I reign in anarchy he rejects me still.
I understand people run when I walk their way but I don’t understand quite why, so I look to Plutarch’s Lives in hopes of learning to act more kind. Maybe I’m not right to feel this way and perhaps there’s a reason I don’t understand, at least there’s Goethe to give me a hand.
Perhaps I should curse god and all that he’s created; set fire to innocent cottages and salt fertile land. Bite the hands of those who have fed me in anger for soliciting false hope. Isolate myself from all I’ve ever been curious about. Or perhaps I could trust my own intuition, not seeking validation from majorities, just give into my own volition. Let my heart guide my head and find love by happenstance.