Monday, October 19, 2009

It's Not Iron. It's Rust.

Smack me in the face with a brick or the bottom of a flight of stairs. I felt both, and I won't tell you which hurt worse. I broke the landing, but the brick broke my face. Blood is red, but it's not Iron. It's rust.

If you have something iron, like a heart, a will, the truth, or a toilet seat or something, don't think that just because it was strong in the past, that it will always be that strong in the future. Even if it's near water, like the toilet seat, don't soak it with water, especially something salty like tears, urine, or sweat. Those droplets might feel good or appropriate, but don't let them near the iron, or the iron will not stay iron for long, especially faced with tears. Tears have a way of breaking things disproportionate to their own volume.

Iron monsters stay monsters forever. Only the truly stupid come by without weapons or someone to ditch who can't run away fast enough. Just because someone is nearby doesn't mean a damn thing to a monster. Instead of trying to bend the monster's iron into a heart like a circus clown with a latex balloon, keep it strong and dry. No matter how convincing or beautiful the twisted iron heart becomes, it's still the monster's calling card, and his best weapon.

Always remember that iron monster. He can masquerade as whatever he wants, but he's still a monster. If tears and low voices feign concern, the monster can't cry. If the testimony of a friend doesn't want to mix friendship with love, the monster must remember his iron. Love is for friends. Love is for the truly stupid. Love is for the masquerade, especially if it's something cool like a fake poet that does more lines than he writes, or a counterfeit pirate with a cool costume and a rubber sword. Love is not for iron monsters, even me.

I'm not armed: I let it get wet. Hope might be my sword, and faith might be my armor, but it's not iron. It's rust.

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