As it turns out, I don't know how to be gracious. Trust me, I know how to fake the concept; I know how to arrive at grace eventually. But in the moment...ah, that bastardly moment. Outwardly I appear serene, but inwardly I am a bitter stew, standing as a harbinger of defeat. If you happen upon me at the right time, I might even share my words with you, my upheaving words; my disaster of an opinion. Disasterous in this truth: to opine while the wounds are fresh is to perpetuate the wounds. And so I go, boldly, into my secret world of gnashing teeth and rickety high roads, dragging my Reputation Merits in the sand, or in some cases, hucking them aside, to be washed away forever in a giant ocean of THIS IS SOMETHING I MUST DEFEND.
I digress. Humanity is a sandbox and some people choose to shit in it. I keep marking out my lines because this is MY CORNER but there it comes anyway, that giant, line-blurring foot; completely disregarding my crouch, my seething need to be thought of correctly, my lines. It comes along and puts a pedestal right up-on-top of my shoulders and stamps around with clumsy, perfectly pedicured toes. Those standing by are in awe, and reprimand me for getting in the way of such a dance.
As it is, I can not defend myself. So I, and what remains of my merits, move out from underneath that preposterous headache. Another spot is chosen, and I make more lines built of something like concrete, or glass shards, or holy scriptures, or whatever I can reach. My ocean follows me, I make a little fire, and warm my hands. Just a few more minutes 'til I have to build again. Faking grace is hard work.
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