tuckova

You can make the joke about the people who think that Frankenstein was the monster, if you like. Although, in truth, he was. But this is you, now: creator and creation. You were always only pages away from putting yourself on an ice flow on the best of days, the horror of your wretched face when you were young, the repulsive sour cynicism of your middle years, and now this. Seriously: SCARS. From you who have always liked the damage to be on the inside or at least self-inflicted, this is a new level of weird. And yet here it is, here you are, wrapped in gauze and stumbling from room to room or standing blankly in front of doors in the hopes that they will open. 

Created in a woman's dream about something she'd lost, who are you now? A nightmare story told to a shivering fellow traveler: here was my childhood, here my arrogance started, bloomed, here I went astray. A vile insect who nevertheless insists on having some right to happiness. Do you really think so? A right to happiness? Might you even go so far as a right to be loved? Certainly not, that would be too far. Just…

I think if the creator could not flee in terror this time, but at least stick around until the bandages come off, then a truly victorious Victor could result; the narrative would shift, and when you see your reflection in the pool you will realize it's not so bad. Justify the creation or don't; this is you and this is your work. No need to burn anybody's cottage down if they don't like it. Now hold it close to you and teach it to read. Put your arms around it and show it how to dance.