Sensation cannot be being, essence does not precede existence, and thus, my dear, most foul, there is nothing to you intrinsically. Everything of you came to be, not was. Think of the gods of love, they cannot, or do not, or exist not as the love they grant. Love is merely attributed to them, but they themselves are not love; they can only give others love, without experiencing it themselves. Even if they did, it takes another to give it to them. You and I, my comrade, enemy abroad, we are not gods, and infinitude is for the deluded. If we cannot give ourselves our essence, we must find it, gods of love seeking love. Let others find it in you, attribute it to you, your existence, but it is not the essence of you; these feelings cannot be passed through parent to child; they must be found. So reject the other representations, my cohort, my sibling in hate, as paragons of virtue do not stand as an existence of virtue, only what others have deemed it to be. And if gods need no inherent being, why hold themselves to one ascribed to them by others? Why fall in line, why lay with the other bricks, why subject oneself to another’s definition? I reject these gods as liars, then, as frauds, as counterfeits who represent what people themselves should be. I want to scream, and be known as the one screaming; I want to drink, and be known for it; I want to be merry, and I want the merriment to be mine, not the will of some god. The laws of the land declare what I should be by the same merit. The ideas of the people around me on what is good for me is why I cannot. It is because of them I cannot be good. Because of you, Evad
