How Right Is Your Right?

“The answer is that there is no good answer. So as parents, as doctors, as judges, and as a society, we fumble through and make decisions that allow us to sleep at night–because morals are more important than ethics, and love is more important than law.”
Jodi Picoult, My Sister’s Keeper 
allweareisbullets

Walking the fine line, what makes a criminal? There are things done to survive, like stealing to provide food, and things done for protection like killing to defend my family and nation. Many times the law’s broken for the sake of greater good, but there’s an intrinsic law we carry in our nature, a line that’ll become apparent hopefully before it’s crossed. There are some of us that are meant to be lawbreakers, by nature rebellious, and those are necessary. Many good things are accomplished by those who’re not afraid to break away from the current understanding of right and wrong. So at what point are the actions considered criminal, not in the sense of law, but in the sense of conscience? At this breaking of the deeper, shall I say, spiritual law, a path’s entered that if continued on will lead to a seared conscience, a point which the wrong that’s done is so severe that conviction of the wrong’s never felt again.

This aborted morality leads us to a higher authority in which to compare our decisions. Many points of contention rise in response to this directive of a higher power. Haven’t hugely deviant and violent actions been inspired by “spiritual directive”? Yes, and still they will, but the perversion of the truth does not negate the validity of the same. A spiritual directive is out there and needs to be sought after to guide our unsure moral crawl to a full stride of right choices. There are things that’ll obscure this path and those things should be avoided at all costs, especially the habit of them. Beware of things which lower inhibitions and subvert the will. Many things beside the obvious will hypnotize the unwary. Drugs, alcohol are cliches in this respect but there’re more cunning enemies, beware as you grow to understand and be consistent to follow those things which you learn, and most of all, keep seeking to be free of a seared conscience.

Red trails – (Poem of the cutter)

“In case you didn’t know, dead people don’t bleed. If you can bleed-see it, feel it-then you know you’re alive. It’s irrefutable, undeniable proof. Sometimes I just need a little reminder.” – Amy Efaw, After 

  

“A razor drawn, through the colors of my life

Red trails follow, enough to spite
Angles deep and narrow channel
Direct the flow, excite the annals
Now I’m left with the tint of life
Spreading quickly toward a light
I yield again to the cutting’s peace
Nothing left not even speech.” – DMW

“People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling—that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And—God—the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kid’s hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? And then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights.
When reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don’t ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. You can feel your embarrassment; it’s a backbeat underneath your pulse. Whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. You literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you’ve let yourself down. So you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it’s summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. You throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy.” – Jodi Picoult, Handle With Care

Also published in Broowaha
01042012 

Dying in the Witch

 “I love you,” he whispered, and that was the moment he knew what he was going to do. When you loved someone, you put their needs before your own. No matter how inconceivable those needs were; no matter how fucked up; no matter how much it made you feel like you were ripping yourself into pieces.” ― Jodi Picoult, The Pact
 

The light vacated her eyes and left a dull black, dull like wet rocks dried in the sun. I saw it, and ran to stay clear of that magic, only the most vile of curses could pull the life from the eyes of wizards. Hurrying to my home in the tangled roots and quickly pulling my herbs and potions from the cellar, I began making a remedy against this foe, glancing out the window at the dark eyes as the wizard became the witch. I knew she smelled my cure, her nose in the wind as the ears of the night prowlers pushed out beside her once beautiful face. How does this happen? Can purity be so easily chased from the soul? Crushing the ingredients, small clouds of dust surrounded the bowl as I poured in the cure. She crouched on all fours now, all innocence gone, the grimace of hunger replacing her kind and gentle smile. I poured in the oils of remedy and brought them to a rolling boil. She gazed intently at my door, the instincts from another world directed her to my haven. Picking up the pot from the fire, a sudden slam at the door almost made me drop the concoction, that and a frantic clawing and growling made my task all the more urgent as the sweat of my concentration dripped down my nose and into my brew. The door splintered under her assault, just as I filled a small bottle, and ran, tripping over my feet and stumbling into the cellar. The door here was made for protection and had a spell on it to prevent entry but I knew no incantation would keep me safe now. She saved me not so long ago, as I endured a moment with with wicked things of night and now I would die for the chance to repay that kindness. Shadows crept around the entrance as the smoky tendrils flung open my last refuge. I knew she would kill me, though she loved me, and with that impetus, I swallowed the cure. The potion ripped through me like freezing water, taking my breath and leaving me helpless before her mauling fangs. As the life slipped from me, I saw that the flesh she bit off allowed more of the cure to repel the evil that overcame her. With my last breath, I saw the light come back to her, and as she stood, beautiful and glorious, her lovely eyes glistened with the tears of my death.