The Anger of a Fool

The beauty in ignorance is very limited. One day, it fades and desiccates, like the pages of an old book, like the petals of a dying flower. Everything must wither.

In the garden, it was all her fault. She was naïve, yet competent – well aware, yet ignoring the pain of oppression. Intellect was her key, her forbidden fruit and outlet to a private, intimate world. Nothing could disturb her peaceful hiding place from the grim darkness of the garden. Nothing could change the ways of the garden, so roughly set in stone and engraved in the hearts of many. It was all she knew.

Truth comes in all forms, be it walking on two legs or slithering on its belly. As a stealthy swindler, it stole her innocent; bludgeoned her senses as a robber in the night. Left to die, on the verdant, lush ground she saw life for what it was. This light, so bright it burned – criticism to a deflated ego, the acid to a wounded leg. No preservation of fleshy fallacies.

The garden was not the haven she assumed. The garden was the world of poverty, hunger, racism, prejudice, violence, theft, murder. All the evils around her count not compare with the emptiness of deception. And so, she became disillusioned and livid, her world crashed around her. And so, for the first time in her life, she had a mind of her own.