daddy long legs aren't real spiders.

He held out a hand, to catch the tumbling spider from the air. The tiny hairy legs made his skin quiver as it marched up his thumb to survey it's new kingdom. The rolls of fleshy hills pulsing with blood, with life, with the power to take life away. The spider began to spin it's web, down his palm, across his index finger, around and around the silky strands stuck to his skin, strong to the spider, but comparitively weak to him. He could blow and they would break, the spider worked frantically, as if sensing the end. Earthquake would have been the human equivalent, or upheavel, the land revolting against the tenants. The spider dangled from it's thread for a moment, feeling the breeze, the air, taking a last breath... or so one could imagine... before it's existence ended. A blink of an eye, or an eternity, time is relevant... life is relevant.
He held out a hand, to snag the spider from the air. The hairy legs clamoured across his skin, as if searching for places to hide. Because even spiders feared him. Serpants too. They no more ruled over a part of his body than he over his own mind. To be a prisnor in one's own mind could be a terrible thing, or it could be a wonderful thing. Years upon years of solitude, starving in the darkness to bring insanity out to it's most perfect form. Steeped in hatred, in fear, anger... like fine wine, blood colored and bitter with a burning after taste. A sneer curled his lips, like lemon juice curls milk, just a tiny taint of blood will change it's color. Pale pink, to red, to crimson. He toyed with it, because that's what he did. He would tease it, letting it think hope, life, happy things. And he would be happy. It would be dead.

Shadows aren't really dark.

He used to be fascinated by things like this, how living things can change in a fleeting instant. How the moonlight can travel across the room even though the moon itself is stationary in the sky. Or how one can live without freedom and breath the same stale air Pharaohs before him had. But when he thought more about it, life came down to instants. Flashes. Snapshots. There was no big picture, because everything was in the moment or for the moment. Whims, wishes, lies, facades, relationships... kings. They were all in the moment.
He used to be fascinated by things like this, how living things can die so quickly. If they were born to die, why would they live? There must be a purpose, like firewood to a fire, fuel to the flame. And so he came to the conclusion, that without filler there can be no voice, without happiness no hatred, without hope no despair. And without light, no darkness. And he loved the darkness.

He's not really me.

He once asked, 'who should I hate?' Because hating was easier than understanding. Hating was easier than understanding why fathers could be cruel, why brothers were not brothers, why mothers were no longer there. Hating was easier than loving brothers who were not brothers, and hating them for mistakes that might never have happened. Hating was easier than accepting, and easier than rebelling. He used to ask a lot of questions. He used to want to know the answers.
He once asked, 'who should I hate?' because hate was beautiful. It was passionate. FULL. It satisfied his craving, his void, created his love only to tear it down again. He understood family, and family that was no family, and family that was no longer there. He knew why he must hate, and so he reveled in it. Because it was easy, because it was fun, and because... it was what he was. He used to ask question... he never cared for the answers.

"Who are you waiting for?"
"Daddy long legs..."