“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”
― Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
It’s a sorrowful story of the angel who always believed he was.
Of the angel who assumed he was angelic, a natural privilege. The angel had no cause to doubt his virtuous soul. The angel lived a life of unquestionable pride and righteousness. The angel grew up to believe he was the light, the life, the gift. He erected a clandestine life built around this preternatural “knowledge” which ultimately proved only a supposition prompted by his own self-neglect and gullibility. How can an angel doubt the goodness in his soul? Everything he does is coated in the splendor of purity of intention and sincerity of motivations. How could the angel doubt such a thing when this is what he was taught since he was young. How could the angel doubt virtuosity when he had internalized that it was all that could live in his own invisible soul? So confident was the angel in his own purity of soul that he became blind to the darkness that occasionally peeped out.
A strange deviation, he explained. He excused the non-angelic actions as a momentary blip in his personal toolkit that was additionally exacerbated by a ruthlessly uncooperative world.
When the side of him that was not angelic roared, so convinced was he of his own angelic nature, he attributed the cause to anything but the possibility of a kernel of evil (that surely did not live in his soul).
And the tragedy was that one day, perhaps, he awoke to discover a beast of such wiliness lurking in his bosom that it had convinced him all his life that the angelic mask was flesh.
As darkness settled, the newly transformed beast bellowed in pain and anguish, and begged for the light again, but was only greeted with stark cosmic indifference.
And this was his indelible path.