Ā Ā Ā what's montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Ā Ā Ā nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Ā Ā Ā belonging to a man. o, be some other name!
Ā Ā Ā what's in a name? that which we call a rose
Ā Ā Ā by any other name would smell as sweet.
what does it mean to have a guilty mind? letās start with a confession.
you hate him because everything he says is witty, his words are always laced with sarcasm. but he would flash you that smile and itās almost creepy. creepy only because itās endearing in the same way. as if heās telling you, thereās no harm to any of it. underneath, there were plenty. he had the mechanics of a smile right straight out of his manual, but he'd seem more authentic whenever he didn't try to feign a smile in his preserved face that looked well under his actual age.Ā
inadequate to handle emotions. emotionally crippled. void of sentiment. something about him was artificial. clinical.
keeping fit had always been an obsession of his. long runs on the beach, daily workouts, a healthy diet. he would preach about red meat. don't eat red meat. red meat, red meat. he's never spotted with a drink either despite his peers deep into the occupational feature. most everything about him screams, āiām not who you want to hang with.ā heās simple at best. you wouldnāt even suspect he has his own secrets even when youāre aware everyone does. nothing about him draws your attention because heās open. or is he? not exactly. itās all part of the act. you wonāt know him unless you were behind his eyes, absorbed into his perspective, convinced of his justice. if youāve said just now,Ā āthereās no way iām anything like himā, think again.
show me a person whoās never encountered a mosquito, preparing to pierce its tube-like mouthpart into oneās skin and didnāt take pleasure in squashing the fly in self defense. tell me youāve never found a kind of grim joy in every fresh blood stain youāve left on your skin, on your walls, wherever else they may have sat still before taking you as their prey. if you can, iāll tell you the conclusion to this story. give up yet? now tell me youāre not similar in any way. if you canāt, youāre in. feel free to read through in shared confidence.
take a boy; a fifteen year old boy who didn't know how to stop. or rather, if he ever could. a numeric threshold in terms of the number of victims, and an element of time; a period of cooling off in between and spree spanning over years. take all three and you get cold blood, inside and out. crimson pooling thickly on the carpet. going back, were they victims at all? heās ruthless, thatās for sure, but if there was one thing his late foster father had left him in a world so cruel,Ā it was to separate the cleansing execution of moral justice from the persisting evil that leaks from numbed slaughter. to this day he follows the code; his only means of a moral compass and the gateway to his yearning to connect.
as a way to control the demon inside, he went after the guilty whenever the law couldnāt do anything about it. he has eyes everywhere. once someone falls into that condition, itās over. he takes them and he keeps them down. good or bad? the lines are blurred. he makes sure no innocent is harmed. on top of that, he rids the world of malevolence. thatās justice to him. doesnāt that sound like a continued success in fulfilling a heroic destiny? doesnāt that give you the security that what lurks around, threatening your very life for reasons selfish and impure is decreasing in the surface of normalcy? we doĀ want him to fulfill his destiny, donāt we?
