Where I Hyde

Hyde here. Jekyll wasn’t a whole man either. I may be twisted, but he was fake. Not illusory nor ideal — but he was legitimately a lie. I am Narcissus. I am somewhat taken with the mad scientist and Van Gogh I see in myself. My emotions are mesmerizing. And I write much better when my emotions overcome the high walls of my inhibitions.

The women who show me love are beautiful and good and true. And I  value them primarily for their beauty. Yet, I’m not shallowly sensual. I’ve always seen their beauty on many levels. It is from their humility, gentleness, and courage that their beauty operates most powerfully. It summons my selfishness into inversion. It calls me out of myself while letting me be myself. It often inspires me to be a better man — but only for a while.

To manipulate, I imitate what is good. In pseudo-humility, I confess through boasts of analytic awareness. Its not hard to overcome denial when everything is plausible. And confession is an intimate act that invites reciprocal self-exposure.

A normative state of compliance assumes the value of every person warrants their equality in relation to insignificant entities such as truth and justice. I am a citizen of that state, so even my enemies tend to like me. My most aggressive acts often pass unnoticed; I secretly celebrate subversion in its most subtle forms; my insubordination is strongest in my compliance. You can’t help but trust me.

Even cynical assassinations of my own character only gain me accolades. Many people are too busy to push against my walls and to recognize the duplicity of my heart. Who want’s to tell the nice guy that he’s what’s wrong with the world?

Blessed are the pure in heart, but I’m both frigid and loose. This is where I Hyde.

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