When we take action to avenge the ones we love personal justice collides with social and divine justice. We become judge, jury, and God. With that choice comes daunting responsibility. Some men cave under that weight. Others abuse the momentum. The true outlaw finds the balance between the passion in his heart and the reason in his mind. His solution is always an equal mix of might and right.
I see now that I never told you the real story about me. …Instead I told you a fake story about me. There was a reason for this. The real story was unflattering and, therefore, embarrassing. So therefore, I slightly altered the real story.
I meant only for these alterations to be minor. I made some alterations in chronology, heightened some lines of dialogue, omitted certain things that you didn’t really need to know. As I said, these adjustments were meant to be minor. However, these adjustments had a cumulative, even exponential effect. So, thus, in the story that I told you, I made a funny speech to a crowd of people at a party, who then praised me for my funniness. However, what actually happened was that I hid in a bathroom at a party and started punching the wall.
I am sorry for not telling you the real story, but I had good intentions. The real story was depressing, for instance, and I didn’t want to bum you out. Also, I wanted you to like me, and also, I wanted you to have sex with me. Thus, in the fake story, I made myself seem funnier, wiser, more noble. Again; these are natural things to do… right?
“That was a funny story!” you said when I told you the fake story.
“I know; right?” I said. Then we had sex.
However, I see now that it was a mistake to not tell you the real story. But now, even if I try to tell you the real story — well, that won’t really work. Telling you the “real” story will involve admitting that I lied in the first place. And so, then, you won’t believe any other stories that I tell you, because I’ll be a liar, so there’s no point, really, in even bothering to attempt the truth, since you wouldn’t believe it anyway.
But I am sorry about all of this. Believe me that I am sorry. I had good intentions? But I see now that the fake story is like a closed door, blocking you from the truth about me. The real story is like an open door that would give you access to the truth. But I can’t show you that door now. The open door still exists; it’s just that you don’t know about the open door. It’s a door, in a house, in the middle of the wilderness somewhere; a house that you won’t visit. …It’s a door. And when the wind blows through it, it doesn’t make a sound.