Folds of the inner

We are all cruel, we are all monsters, we make others crying, we lacerate ourselves with scalpels and blades, with poisons and elixirs, just because yes, there is no reason, only part of our nature, in the murky terrain of the human soul, in its chaos and defect, in its bends. We are all somewhat Medea or Agamemnon, unpleasant and reprehensible to our conscious selves, masochists and sadists. Tormented by our fragile spirit, by rejection or loneliness, perhaps that is where our true personality emerges, in that black world, perhaps it is there where we completely complement each other by ceasing to fight with conscience and reason, in making alliances between what unconscious, the rotten and the judicious, and perhaps salvation emerges from the same evil. How many tormented hells, how many minds will be necessary to explore to understand guilt, fear, repression and redemption, to reach the turning point that leads to the encirclement of that humanity that inspires, that nourishes, that builds and causes change, that it makes us experience ourselves alone and let ourselves go, free. What joy it produces to discover gold behind rough shells, to discover new forms of life that were not imagined, in this reading and perception of the contradictions and delights of the human psyche, of our inner world. How many satans will it take to open the sky. We are gold dust.