Cras - Redefinition

Let me re-write the history books with my fists, then, and the encyclopedias with my fingernails, and tell it right:

This then is the height of humanity: a boy in a trench in the Somme, laughter hard as a bayonet, blood in his teeth, because war's the most beautiful thing in the world and he can't wait to die.  

And this is the lowest point, then: a child who should've died is given a second chance, is told he is loved, and wanted, and has a home, but all of those he realizes are lies, wrapped like bandages tighter and tighter around him over the years, until he suffocates on their pity, and wonders: where is mercy?

And what of mercy?  Mercy is three feet of large intestine spilled out on the snow, steaming, and a numb, dumb kind of surprise at the lack of blood, and the smell of pine sap on fingertips he can no longer feel, and yet he smiles, knowing at last what it means to have control over one's death.

And this is beauty, then: the crack in the clouded mirror, the only thing to break the illusion so that he'll know, hand to his face groping for the scar, which side he's on.

And this is hate:  the birthday boy surrounded by all his friends and family, sickened on sugar and realizing his disappointment stems not from his having not gotten what he wanted, but that he wanted nothing.

And this, then, is love: all the pages you ever filled, all the stars you called by name, all the songs you forgot the melodies to--all of it up in flames, all of it falling down, all of it fading out, and you're just standing in the calm, maelstrom center of it all, and understanding that this, then, is your truth: you can only love something once it's died.