"go draw a monster. why is it a monster?" they forget that we are the ones who created these monsters, sometimes for no apparent reason. i once saw a monster that was beautiful, often in my childhood. i also once saw a monster that was not far from the reason why it was finally called that. i do always wonder—what would happen if we didn't grow from other people's words, other people's trauma, to become who we are today. can we still be ourselves? or do we have to be shaped first, until we find the appearance we truly desire? they always said, don't listen to what they say about you. but the whispers still remains right? the whispers stay remains. what's the point of being reborn if the world and its filth still be the same as it was?