From the beginning, I knew that terror is a god. But now, I also believe that what might sound like a death rattle is merely the echo of ancestral song.
Are these the only two stories? The one, where you defeat your monster, and the other, where you succumb to it?
Perhaps the certainty that you are not the monster—that no matter what you do, you will never become the monster—is what gives rise to monstrous behavior.
In America, we like to be heroes—to find our enemies and defeat them. So, in a pandemic where the enemy is not visceral, we create one that is.
I do not have flesh; I only have ghosts. In this story, the dead are only what I say they are. Does this make them less real?
Myths were—are—created to explain the unknown, like natural disasters, like death, like the unknowable bodies of water.