The Saddest Giant
Posted on 18. Sep, 2006 by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Loss, Regret, Spiritual
There comes a moment, when trust and faith become meaningless. Little words that define nothing, as if black had no white. They share such a common theme that they are inherently held together, like a body and soul.
Yet my body lacks a soul. I swear that my breath causes my lungs to raise, only if I live. I am not unique or special in construction, only an automation of blood and flesh that is different because of the error of my creation. I do want to be different. I want to be normal.
If indeed I was created, would not my body be worthy of holding something as special as a soul? If I could breathe, would it not be to fuel the light within me, to ignite the passion of my spirit?
I would only wish that my face was not so hideous, that the people I see would know I cared for them. Someone should love me. I am not broken, or I hope that I am not. Am I not more than the monster they think me to be?
Too many questions. Too many indeed. If I could speak, perhaps I could ask Frankenstein to fix his creation.