A Letter

I wonder, to what end will you pursue your goal? In a decade you have made me the center of your existence. The hatred you have cultivated is now your only purpose. If you achieve your aim, will you be sated? What then will you live for? To the rest of your life, now built around the central idea of destroying me, what will it mean? There will be no more programming required, no planning for future litigation.

You told me weeks ago that I am no longer the center of your universe but, in fact, I am your complete universe. With every breath you consider the means you will use to sow your revenge. In every dream you imagine a world where you stand above my grave and smile at my demise. I am in every corner, every facet of your daily routine. You see my reflection in everything you do. Each time stoking the fire of loathing you feel for my very existence.

My life means something now. I live it, not for myself, but for others that share this world with me. If you end me, you will take something away from this sphere that has purpose, that propagates growth. The cosmos will despise you for it. You hate me for my mistake and for a time I hated myself. But I have set my mind upon the task of owning that choice, and so many others. I move on to heal. You remain in a pool of venom, drowning in poison you now create. I have a life. All you have is the unquenchable urge to destroy me.

How do you anticipate completing your mission? Economics? Psychology is clever, you could write my self-inflicted demise off as justification. Legal means prove useless now. Perhaps you would go so far to have me killed. Ideally an accident would remove me from this plane, so you could wash your hands of it. If only it could be as simple as that. If you end me, you will have your revenge, and nothing more. There is nothing you can do to me that will ever be enough.

You are nothing but a shell. Empty, broken, seeking to be whole. If only you could see the good you might create. I truly feel sorry for you.

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