text: Not so long ago, there was a young man. He was tall and strong. The kind of young man often called respectable, impressive even. He walked gallantly with his shoulders back and his chest puffed out, almost as if he wanted you to meet his gaze. He certainly met the eyes of any and all, regardless of station, stature, or title. This young man dripped with confidence like a daunting glazier melting into the sea. He never feared to share his thoughts, to raise his concerns. He was quick with a comment and quicker with a criticism. The young man was loved and admired, but many held him in contempt. Many were quick to whisper when he left the room; quick to gossip angrily about the arrogance so obvious in the set of his jaw. Oh if they'd known. If they'd only known how much he wanted to impress and to be loved, to be admired, respected, revered and maybe a little feared, like one of those knights or ancient kings in the old stories. If they'd only known the depths of his desire to achieve, to make something of himself. If they'd only known he woke before the dawn to fall on his knees and ask for love, to fall on his knees and pray for peace and forgiveness for one more day. If they'd only known the exhaustion of his body and the calluses on his hands. All in an effort to escape the legacy of an unhealthy past. All in an effort to turn heads and silence whispers when he walked into a room. If only they'd know this young man was not the product of accident or chance, not more or less than any other man. He'd formed himself to be something more, or at least he'd tried, really tried. He formed his body, rolled and folded over like hot steel slowly hardening and taking shape. He swung the hammer of learning against the anvil of his mind, over and over he swung. He sharpened his whit and forged his intellect. He dug the well of his knowledge with his bare hands, he'd scraped the soil of his mind until his fingers bled. The young man knew, no he believed, if he simply dug a bit deeper, swung the hammer once more, folded the steel one last time, then it'd be enough - then he'd be enough. Yet, with each bloody handful of dirt painfully scraped from the well of his mind, with each resounding clang of hammer against anvil, with each fold of white hot steel, he came closer and and closer to the truth. The truth at the bottom of the well, the truth at the end of his accomplishments, the truth that he'd never done any of this for anyone else. The truth that he hadn't sought the love and respect of the masses. He hadn't sought to silence the idle gossipers. He hadn't sought to convince anyone of anything. He'd been digging his well, forging his steel, swinging his hammer, thinking, believing, hoping that one day when his work was done he'd have finally done enough to simply love himself.