Mirror, Mirror

He has a secret he wants to tell: he has the fairest fist of them all. O all his friends he would like to know, about this little blog of mine.

He would like them to say: yes you are a wonderful fist, right up to his face. He would like to look down upon their awed little faces, as though their little faces were little mirrors, shining back the light of his awesomety.

But then I whisper a secret into his ear, who whispers into his heart, who whispers it into his soul, who whispers it into a corner of his mind. The whisper is:

"You are not awesome. Only your fist is. And then, only sometimes; when flying. You should like to suppose yourself like the blog, free, everywhere, uncensored, unlimited. But you are a man at a desk. Dull, and polite. Shut your eyes and open your fist."

And he shuts his eyes, the mirror gone. But I stay shut to. And a message of failure fails in its quest: to shatter the world with a fist.