Though I have the capacity for vengeance, 'tis not the fear of becoming morally akin that doth restrain me from yielding to my impulses. I oft imagine a parchment inscribed with the edicts of justice. I could flout these mandates, and proceed with my day after inflicting upon thee an exact level of anguish—and mayhap even more grievous—but I refrain for this law doth forbid me such action.
Were the choice mine own, I'd mete out thy punishment with relish as if I were indulging in my favourite play. Yet such a course would mark me as bane and vile, wouldn't it? Hence I willingly adhere to a code of laws. A man governed by his passions is akin to a drunkard at the reigns; there's a high probability someone will get harmed, whether that be him, the victim, or both—and the prospect of neither are indeed scant.
Pray tell, what is the cost of wanton destruction? Could one despoil an art gallery without repercussion or would the consequences prove dire? My argument stands thus: though I have not regard for my abuser's sentiments, I would consider myself a sensible woman, thus always inclined to do the right thing.
Pardon me, almost always inclined do the right thing. Forgiving you every day is a skill I've yet perfected.
But that begs such questions: how doth one forgive though never given the chance to heal? How can one heal though forced to reside in the environment that bruised them?
YOU ARE READING
Deep Within My Soul
Poetry"Perhaps that's why I don't care greatly for revenge; a man's guilty conscious is a plate served by and to himself and no one can serve it better than him." A collection of introspective short stories and poetry.
