like corollas of mirrors, bestowed upon them by helios's mercy.
who is the ogre you ask?
why it's him, over there.
hideous features like a being damned by the gods.
something so grotesque that the odor of his spirit requires no search.
"did you not hear of what he did?"
no one knows what he did, only hearing of his doing. yet that was enough.
"if only we paid him mind, we would have noticed an ogre in flower town."
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"well he looks the type."
then how was an ogre allowed in?
surely one must have seen.
we congregate and ponder.
but....he hasn't always appeared to be a monster.
until we heard what he did.
so if memory serves me...... he's always looked that way.
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a lot of people, whether deliberately or not, have a bad habit.
a stinking, rotting, bad habit.
a habit left out to fester beneath the sun.
the reduction of morality to aesthetics.
why is it when a person commits a horrid act, our mascots of opinion insert their voice?
"they look the type. if i saw them, i would assume they do or did [blank]."
out of the billions, perhaps 117 billion, of people who've lived on earth, what is the possibility of a chunk of them looking like you?
the action of reducing a person to aesthetics and associating those aesthetics with particular actions becomes a troubling cycle.
we bathe in hypocrisy. our mattresses carved from underneath, stuffed to the brim, our soap bars made of wax.
how many deserve the walk of atonement?
i, too, crave punishment for all of us. but i solely wish i could erase our very existence from this earth.
an extermination.
however, despite my disdain for humankind, i understand that our vessels are not our property.
borrowed, not kept.
we don't create it alone.
although we can modify it, it isn't always sustainable or permanent.
and in the end, we lose ownership.
we melt into our graves, becoming decomposer grub.
so why do we rank morality by the basis of our temporary vessels?
for each of us, our beauty is borrowed.
corollas of glass fracture. leaving nothing to reflect the light.
where is your beauty now....ogre?
your hidden rot now exposed.
now no one is blinded and kept from being near you
and your putrid smell.
for what is an ogre but a petalless flower?
the reduction of wrongdoers to their appearance is a weak attempt at observation.
people are horrible.
some deserve to have every limb severed and fed to them before being skinned (very graphic, but i don't want this to seem like i think people are redeemable. i believe certain acts are never redeemable, even if you become the biggest philanthropist, empath, or selfless person.).
but when we build a society where beauty controls reactions to an action, we get people who desire the love of a serial killer.
......
like i said, we're already irredeemable.
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i realised in tenth grade that this thinking was wrong when a girl had bragged to me about being friends with a guy i liked, countless times.
at first, i thought, "she's so mean and that makes her ugly."
but after consideration, i questioned myself, "why am i equating her personality to her looks?"
whether good or bad, that process creates a bias where you justify actions based on looks.
attractive people are more likely to be forgiven or have their terrible actions refuted.
while society's idea of less attractive people is boxed into their faults and denied forgiveness.
we have to do better.
monstrous humans should be regarded based on their actions rather than the aesthetics of their containers.
╔⊶⊶⊶✧《✩》✧⊷⊷⊷╗
the ogre scurried out of flower town under a hail of stones.
the flowers cheered.
beauty had been returned to flower town.
but as the ogre disappeared from the horizon,
helios had bombarded them with the gift of light.
so much so that the heat caused the petals to expand.
however, as fast as it had come, the endowment had stopped.
for helios had retracted his mercy.
in a moment, his blessings had ceased.
the smell of decay blew in the wind —
alerting adjacent towns to the source of that forever constant odor.
enveloped in darkness became flower town.
where all that could be heard was the shattering of glass.
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