There is no sin without guilt; no guilt without shame; no shame without fear; no fear without servility. No truth for the poet but that soaked in blood. Appearing as I am, being as I appear, I care not how I seem to others, nor might their opinions of me alter in any way my knowledge and perception of myself. I never avert my eyes. I stand alone. My risks are my own; my responsibilities, my own; my failures, my own; my triumphs, my own; all that I say and write, my own. If I offend, it means neither that I am wrong, nor the those offended are right. That which offends is but temptation denied. That which angers, revelation feared.

I will not be held to blame, censured, shamed, for the lies others live. Between hypocrisy and truth, there is a scapegoat, a victim, a whipping boy. The hypocrisy is that of those who would suggest and proclaim the lie intended to induce one to falter. My truth is my own.  Fearless, of course, I have no remorse; I cannot fall from a favour, a grace, I never sought nor claimed. My self-determination, thus my self-respect, is incapable of indignity. Dishonour, only in cowardice; depravation, mere gratification. Assurance that I have stood alone, stood last, against intolerance, parochialism, persecution. Though not a seeker of repute – Fame the aberrant, the divergent, the eccentric; don’t shame him.