The Being of My Own Will

Give me not unto my own will. Bestow upon me not the will of my own being. For if so, I am no better than the one who is above, or evil, or presumptuous that he himself has become the father of it. For in twilight zones, there was in freezing cold a being, standing still in time. His face, an appearance of immense beauty and immense power. So icy cold beneath all those shafts. And yet, in him did I find no courage to judge. For it was like a versatile mirror I looked upon. And as I looked upon the cold, so freezing, it burned my body ashore. Up close, I threw myself onto a boiling fire to make myself less icy than before. And even surprisingly, the hotness did not even bother me a bit. For this being, sculpture and purpose are of his own will to do as he pleases—a god of his own, a being of his fracture. And yet again, I saw him and found no error to judge. For I saw myself, a versatile mirror, the flesh of a being. And yet, this being was no flesh like me. I find myself sinking low in my will that was no different than that—an evil thought that, in my hands, will do as I wish and will trace as I am. For we share the same name and the same motive, which, if left to our own devices, would but destroy, lie, and create havoc upon all that we touch. And yet, this being, though frozen in time, still knows its purpose, even if not in fleshly apparel. It mimics that which the flesh bestowed to do upon its own will—what it wants, its beauty, the most apparent uncle—to deceive and motivate all. And as I watched closely, it did not have eyes to perceive, nor ears to hear, nor mouth to speak. All it has is to walk, is to talk through the flesh of my own being in order to accomplish its own task. A vivid embodiment of monstrosity, a tower of a hopeless nation, scrambling for that which only pleasures could perceive. A thousand and upon a thousand, it will roam and be free. And yet I, who am made of flesh, shall burn in its stead, shall wiggle instead of it.