John Clare

77

What dreams I had in my mate! Of another being, looking into these eyes, upon this face, and recoiling not. But how could that happen? For the monster is not in my face, but in my soul. I once thought that if I was like other man I would be happy, and loved; the malignancy has grown, you see? From the outside in, and this shattered visage merely reflects the abomination that is my heart. Oh my creator why, why did you not make me of steel and stone? Why did you allow me to feel? I would rather be the corpse I was than the man I am.