(A little ficcy I thought of while listening to inordinate amounts of music. A Lucy POV on the world inspired by reading huge amounts of FMA. Enjoy my 'ranting'. Okay, I have nooo idea where I was going with this. Get an old preist and a young priest, I may have been possessed.)
Perfection
Everything occurs in the binding grasp of an eternal flow; everything happens for a reason and yet nothing matters at all.
Nobody and nothing has any hope of alternating this never ending cycle. The infinite circle of life and death will go according to plan and continue to wrap around destiny's heavenly ring finger, and all we can do is sit there and watch it happen.
Some will go into denial, and strive to be well known. Few humans will take their lives and try to mold something tangible and legitimate out of the old lump of clay it is in the first place. Grasping it in fingers that tremble in anxiety, they will try to make something decent of the time they are given here. Everything in moderation. For every death there is a life; for every loss there will be gain. Absolutely nothing can disturb this way of passing aside from the ethereal creation that is I.
Not me...No. Never. I am the real thing. My natural hair color and rounded horns on my head are nothing. Physical differences are worth naught...Nothing, just like what absolutely every living thing will amount to be.
There must be a reason.
Why me? Why must such a differently painted, empathy immune being such as myself even exist? What purpose will that serve, in the big scheme of things? I might take somebody's head off, but it's just the same as a child getting hit by a car or a soldier dying in the line of duty. There must be a reason for my existance.
There must be a reason. These cold, unfeeling things that lurk among me, these humans, deteste me as if I am venemous. I am shunned because I am a freak. A monstrosity. A landmark in human evolution. The envious whisps of air that call themselves my ancestors loathe and ostracize me because I am special. Because I will crack this ring of life and drop its golden remains to clatter noislessly on the floor while all they will ever have the jurisdiction to do in that situation is watch with vacant eyes.
If I can kill without remorse; does that make me a freak? Is it really so bad to not be disturbed by the fact that I am fulfilling my god-given duty?
Embrace it, foul sub-creatures. Embrace the fact that you are the freaks and not I, who has corporeal means of dealing with things instead of relying on icy, verbal weapons. All of you are here for a reason, but should one, two, a million of you fall, it will not matter in the slightest. It's not as if my victims are chosen-I merely have the ability to wipe out an unreasonable amount of pawns in fate's chess game at once. It is I who has been chosen to complete this mission. I am here for a reason. I must be. There is no other explanation that could possibly hope to answer this blunt question.
Go ahead. By all means, point and stare at the girl who looks different and thinks she's two people, the girl with the invisible arms, the girl that means something. I will welcome your hostile instincts with open arms.
Because I am inhuman. Because I am sick. Because, unlike all of you, I exist to accomplish. Because I bear a purpose.
Because I am the epitome of perfection.
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Back off, you little shits
Gnawing at my fists
I see they breed you by the boatload
Gnawing at my fists
I see they breed you by the boatload
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