Escape from Morality

What I have a problem with is his infuriating morality. His position, as he stands at a distance, with an eyebrow raised, and watches – skeptically, condescendingly, disbelievingly. Unable to fathom that people behave like animals, that a girl he once loved can’t resist temptation, and that a boy with razor-sharp stubble and bloodshot eyes would be able to stroll in and steal the impulsive fallen angel away from his moralistic mania, steal her the way he once stole her camera, years and years ago.

Yes, stole her camera. The boy with the slow, eerily slow, blink, and the steely glint that appeared the second you crossed him: he stole her camera, and lied about it – and yet she ignores this and allows him to pick her up as easily as he once picked up the little piece of pink metal. She steps away from her model citizen of a moralistic ex-boyfriend, best friend, lover, slipping under his outstretched arm and sprinting away, unable to stand as straight as he does, unable to judge till her tongue bleeds and her brain pounds from the sheer exertion of damning the devils that surround them.

His infuriating refusal to ever be wrong – because he, and everyone else around, knows he just never is. His insistence to view her character as a tainted golden that required only his buffing, polishing, meticulously careful attention, to shine – when actually, she and everyone else around, know it never glowed brighter than a dull bronze to begin with. His reproachful tone as he declares himself not angry but disappointed, not raging but hurt, not vengeful but wronged – because he, and everyone else around, knows that the only way to pull her back in is break her sense of spirit and self and independence and remind her that he relies on her too much to ever let her fly away forever.

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