Everything you are is weakness. Everything you are is soft and malleable. What a pathetic thing you are in this state. You don’t refute the point. How can you when it’s truth is so obvious to you? If only you’d been made from sturdier materials, perhaps then you would be strong. But this thing you are – it is a thing of weakness. You accept that; you breathe and live that, feeling that your shame may absolve you of your frailty.
But I – I am a thing of strength. I am a thing of utter soft, fragile, sturdy, malleable power. I refute every weakness I find in this body. I pound it like steel being forged. I burn until I transform. I work until I am unmade.
Would it surprise you if you knew I was made from the same materials as you? Would it shock you if you’d seen the thing I’d started as, the soft and fragile thing, the thing that nearly collapsed in on itself, the thing that worked for its own destruction and in so doing accidentally made something unbreakable?
It shouldn’t. We are the same.