Bitter

Nietzsche was a bitter man. His words were a thousand swords taken up by disposable young men against the society that wrote us off. We were a pride of lions, savaging the dragon that kept us chained from birth until we had the strength to tell it "No." Through righteous violence, we razed the old world that refused us our freedom. It faded the moment I laid eyes on my newborn son's resting face. I became a blacksmith, hammering out scales for the dragon he would one day fight. Was that my purpose, to strengthen his enemy? Was that what my parents did? I wished for him to grow up free of chains and desperately wanted to be his rock for the battles that lay ahead of him. Was I going to feed the beast under the guise of guiding him? I looked at Nietzsche and finally had the strength to tell him "No." My parents gave me Thou Shalts, but many were scaffolding built with profound love designed to spare me from their pain. Lessons they learned delivered as commandments so I wouldn't have to bleed. These were gifts, and the framework I'd made my north star became grotesque in an instant. Who am I to look at their gifts and say they needed to be savaged and destroyed? Nietzsche was a bitter man.