It isn’t my fault they don’t understand.
They live petty lives, worried about money and superficial things, not caring about those they hurt. As long as they are living in their golden castles, with their silver spoons and strange riches from wherever they proclaim them to be from, they do not care who they victimize. They are like leeches, sucking the energy from those they deem lesser beings than themselves, like parasites they feed off us, the general, the ordinary and take away our freedom, our hope and creativity.
And yet, I am the sick one.
Ironic, when all I do is take from them and give to the ones who really need it. How does that make me the villain? I am like Robin Hood, saving and helping the weaker, the vulnerable, the poor, because the rich do not need a savior, they do not need help. They are like Gods among mere mortals, praised for their apparent work and dutiful lives, when really all they do is buy and buy and buy.
They know nothing of our struggles. And yet, they complain about not having enough, when they have everything.
I take from those who have selfishly claimed the world as their own and squash their happiness, like a bug on a windowpane, quick and painless. They deserve harsher deaths; they deserve to feel our pain. But I am not cruel. I am not like them.
At least in their deaths, they have regained some of their humanity.
It is a shame; they took mine to regain their own.
And somehow, in death, they still win. And we lose. We always lose.