At Dark, I Become Loathsome

by Eric LaRocca

At night, I become guilty of crimes I haven’t committed, much less even contemplated. I become a caricature of my former self—a creature to be persecuted, loathed, reviled, detested. At nighttime, I’m something to be tortured until condemned—someone completely and forever misunderstood.

But though humanity doesn’t escape us when it’s dark out, I’ve learned that human decency only exists when it’s convenient.

Still, there’s a part of me that wonders how I might feel if I turned everyone and everything away until I was completely alone with my thoughts as my only companions.

The world is nothing more than a carnivorous plant that devours the things that are the softest and most delicate.

You see, when we begin our lives in this world, we begin as creators. We are constantly building. Our lives are spent creating, inventing, designing. I always knew I was building something, starting when I was very little. I only wish I had known it was a grave. My grave.”

Christianity has made sycophants of most of us—lobotomized zombies who will suckle at any available teat even if it’s leaking lighter fluid and we’re holding a torch.