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To Me, My Friends, To Me,

Lend your ears and hear my words and know I speak true, with a hurt heart and shadowed conviction.

A great act of injustice occurred mere hours ago, and I found myself puzzled and at lost as to whether I should call out and let it be known what was said, what horrible phrase had been uttered to me, or keep tight lips and let it die, as it should, unnamed and unknown, for it is so unheard of.

So here, here I say, I shall tell you, all who do listen to my words, and hear my voice, and feel my torment, here you shall be told of an act of lunacy, but nay, not lunacy, for not even the worst madmen could commit such a shameful act and yet have such a steady tone of voice, such disrespect for their action.

No, Lunacy had nothing to do with it, for it was worst then that. It was BLASPHEMY!

Blasphemy against that which is most treasured by man, more sacred then any deity, and far old than most of what we pride ourselves on. Against the very notion of the written words, cherished words, and honored words.

And for the one who spoke, to say what was, and to claim love of literature itself, I pity you. Pity that reaches a greater depth then possible. For even if you were to never speak again, offering silence in form of repent, time would end thrice over before you’ve been silent enough.

And so I pity you.

You, who taught me the love of the written words, the love of books, and has scarred me.

This day, March Twenty-five, forever will be marked, marked as an unjust day, when one who had best known the words they spoke, spoke words best never known…

To anyone.