The Black Winter Sheep.

The Black Winter Sheep.

photo from Pinterest

The heaviness of not believing in a higher presence means bearing the crushing weight of the acknowledgement that I am on my own, and on my own alone. Do not get me wrong, this is not me complaining. In fact, I prefer it and would have it no other way. Let me find the strength to make myself and my world better against all odds. Let me find a way out with the cards I have been dealt by chance. I congratulate myself when I persevere and excel. I worship my entity alone. If things go to shit, I deeply feel and accept it.

Humans are to blame, you know, for the precedent, the environment we have established for years before and will continue to set for years to come. Women and kids suffer the brunt of it. The poor are forced into damnation, and the kids remain in severe danger. We are truly the evil, not some man named Satan. God is not to be, for we are gods to ourselves and our surroundings. If being a god means power scaling, oppressing, and setting rigid rules for my experiments, then I simply do not want to be one.

When I create things, I give them grace. I allow wiggle room for trial and error. I do not force my makings to be just one thing, they change as the process evolves. They are never perfect or complete since completion would mean permanence. I do not and will not place faith in something I cannot see. Seeing tells me what is true, feeling tells me what is real. To see is to believe, to feel is to experience the pain and sweetness beneath. To be free is to be me.

Unfortunately, I have been doomed from a tender, young age and burdened by the realization of this madness called the world. From the moment I opened my eyes at birth, from when I was told that I had been gifted a role which I must abide by, from when I kissed a girl and derived pleasure from it —a truth that arrived in my body before I even had permission to want it. From when I made excuses for my abuser because we were both young and when I didn’t understand why being a woman meant to be destined to suffer. When I didn’t find interest in the god they sold to me, and when I would think and think and think for hours about being and how the formula for the world’s workings did not make sense. I was told to accept a design that required my absolute submission, and that was not what I envisioned for myself. So I would think until my head would flash a bright red.

Perhaps I am truly the mad one. Then again, “mad” is what you would call something that diverges from a whole. A single sheep in a flock born in winter and, as if as some cruel joke, born black. A bird with no wings. A “defect,” they would call it. To be with defects is to be mad.

So maybe my father isn’t entirely wrong after all. I do have an illness that requires me to be checked by the doctors of the populace I was born in. They have a name for this, I’m sure, the doctors… But a diagnosis is just another cage for things that cannot be understood or do not conform. And I already told you, I do not do well with cages. I do not force my creations into one shape, so why would I let them force one onto me?

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I have been consumed by the guitar riffs in this song once more so I listened to it for the four hours it took me to complete this piece. I recommend listening to it while reading this or right after, maybe at some point, you’ll understand why.