To the parents I never knew and never will know,
I am a good man. I keep my morals in my heart next to the woman I love and do not stray too often. I fought—fight for my country and for my beliefs. Other's shoes do not always fit, but I always at least try them on. A grumpy man in the market selling day-old bread for a pittance, a noblewoman hiding behind a veneer of opium and vanity, a slave walking in chains behind a cloth-covered wagon, and a slaver who sells souls for the clothes on his back. A cobbler, a king, a ferryman, a merchant, a miner, a maid, a housewife, a house guest—they all live. They love and hate. They have scars. They have fears and desires. They eat, drink, sleep, shit, and piss. They are all mired in mortality, even if some believe themselves to be above the rest. Can one life be more valuable than another? I wonder what you would make of that question. Some would say the slave's life is worth more than the slaver, while some believe the opposite to be true.
I am a good man… but like all good men, the seven sins do cling to me so. My crimes are many. I have killed. I have taken that which was not mine. I have looked away when I should not. I have broken promises and have kept to myself when I should have spoken aloud. The list can go on, and I will likely add to it before the day is done. I do not seek permission, or even forgiveness for my many crimes. I do not wish to hide behind justification, as only weak men run from their amorality in such a way. After all, even if a slave kills his slaver, a man is still dead at the end of the day.
I write this letter to people who will never read it because I am a coward. Monica tells me it is unhealthy to keep such thoughts inside, but I am not strong enough to share these things with anyone—even her. So, I figured you were the next best option. I pen myself and writ my blood so that you may judge me from the void. All I want is to help, and I hope my intentions are enough.
I am a good man. I believe that and know it for one reason: I seek understanding. I wish to know the mind of the slave and the slaver—I would hear their stories. I would know the man who sold himself to feed a sick child, and I would know what drives a man to barter in lives. I would sit with a despotic leader and know why he holds his power in clenched fists. I would see the open ocean and know why a pirate would steal to live free. I would soar the skies with the sparrow and crawl in the dirt with the worm. I would hear the songs and read the books. I would seek to know. Through hate and war, I would sit with my enemy and talk.
Through this, all is possible. I firmly believe that.
Zyph and Spirits be with you,
Foster Grey