Thirty Fifth Thought

The witching hour approaches, and slowly my shell begins to unwind
Ribbons of flesh and bone unraveling, exposing a smaller man, a paler man, radiant as the full moon, but brittle as a dry branch

At the witching hour I stand naked before God and Goddess
They grasp and feel and explore my body, extolling me of my virtues but reminding me of my faults

Nothing escapes their gaze

They see me for who I am, no pride, no pretense, no modesty
They see the pockmarks and scars, they see where my skin shines brightest, and the glow in my eyes

I spend all night after this, trying to envelope myself in my second flesh again
The stronger, darker, more virile, flesh
The flesh that deflects pain and strife, the bones that hold me up when I should fall

They are fabrications for my own defense and survival
Like all beings I wear a shell

For the shell is strong, and sturdy, and practically impenetrable, save for the witching hour, It contrasts with the self within, glowing and insubstantial, like gas

People change when they reveal this to each other, when they stand naked in each others presence, to be close enough to touch in this state, is take some of them into oneself, and to lose a small part of ones own identity to the other, neither exactly the same as they were before, although their outer shells are unaltered

To reveal this to another person, is a show of trust beyond all reason, to become so vulnerable
Just as the shell is damaged by physical attacks, the inner self is damaged by emotions, by hate, and malice, by ideas, and most of all rejection

Who have you stood naked before?
For who have you been nude, in the only way that matters
For whom have you shed your shell?

The witching hour has come and past
And now I pick up my shell, and get dressed