The Meaning of Evil

The evil they do to me does not harm me, for it is not the pain imposed by another that defines me. Pain is fleeting, transient, a passing ripple in the vast river of time. It may sting in the moment, but it dissolves into the past, becoming nothing more than a distant echo.

What truly transforms me is the evil I choose to commit, for it is my own actions that carve the contours of my being. I am not shaped by what is done to me, but by how I respond, internalize, and allow it to influence my path.

And so I observe. I watch the silent unfolding of existence, where men drift like shadows against the walls they have built themselves, prisoners of their own design. They believe themselves bound by fate, yet it is their own fear that keeps them shackled.

The weight of harm is not in the hands of another — it rests in the choices we make, in the decisions we allow to shape us. A wound is but a whisper against the skin, a fleeting reminder of a moment that has passed. A mark that fades with time, unless we choose to reopen it, to prod at it, to let it fester.

It is not the wound that defines the sufferer, nor is it the whip that shapes the soul. True change, true corruption, does not come from external affliction but from within. It is the quiet, almost imperceptible consent to corruption that seals one’s fate. A slow nod to darkness, a submission to its quiet pull, a momentary lapse of resolve that allows it to take root and grow.

But what is this evil, if not a reflection of ourselves? A mirror held too close, revealing the face we wish not to see. We recoil from it, deny it, claim it is not us. Yet, the horror is not in what others do — it is in what we do with what was done to us.

They betray, they strike, they cast us into the abyss of their hatred. But these are small things, mere pebbles in the current of existence. The true horror begins when we take the stone in our own hands, feel its weight, and cast it upon another. That is when we become what we once despised, when we cease to be the wounded and become the wounder.

Evil does not lie in pain but in the justification of pain inflicted. There is always a justification, always a reason that makes cruelty seem necessary. A wound calls for retribution, a betrayal demands recompense, an injustice must be corrected.

The mind is a labyrinth where choices echo through its endless halls. Every thought is a seed, every decision a path unfolding before us. We are not merely passing through time — we are shaping ourselves with every step, constructing the foundation of who we are.

Do we see this? Or do we mistake reaction for righteousness, believing ourselves just when, in truth, we are ruled by impulse? Do we believe we are forging our own destiny, or are we merely puppets of the past, acting out our pain upon the world?

Men walk the streets bearing their wounds like banners, wearing scars as if they were emblems of virtue. They display them, take pride in them, as if suffering itself were a measure of worth.

But virtue is not found in victimhood. There is no honour in carrying pain like a badge. To suffer is not to triumph, nor does it elevate one’s spirit. The true tragedy is not in the harm we have suffered, but in the harm we embrace and cultivate, in the moment when suffering hardens into vengeance.

That is the moment when a man ceases to be himself and becomes the very force he once loathed, no longer in control but controlled by the darkness he once feared. The moment when he no longer fights against it but surrenders, allowing it to guide his hand.

And yet, healing is possible. Beyond pain, beyond the weight of what was done, there exists a path forward. We are not doomed to remain prisoners of our past. To heal is not to forget, but to reclaim our narrative, to stand firm and declare that we are more than the sum of our suffering.

And so, we must tread carefully, watching not the hands that strike us, but our own hands in the aftermath. What will they create? Will they touch the world with kindness or shatter it with cruelty? Will they build something greater or destroy all that is fragile?

The weight of existence rests in these choices, in the seemingly small moments that ultimately define us, in the silent decisions we make when no one is watching.

Evil is not something imposed upon us, nor is it an external force waiting to consume. It is a seed planted within, waiting for the right conditions to grow. Some allow it to take root, to spread, to thrive unchecked. Others recognize it for what it is and uproot it before it can flourish.

We stand at this crossroads always. We can be victims of the pain we endure, or we can be the architects of our own destiny. We can choose to let darkness rule us, or we can choose to stand in defiance of it.

Light and shadow live within us both, but the power to choose remains our own. The true strength lies not in avoiding darkness but in transforming pain into wisdom, in turning suffering into something greater.

To choose the light is to reclaim oneself. To choose the light is to be free.

To heal is to rise from the ashes, to mend what was broken, to create beauty from the wreckage of our past. We are not defined by our wounds, but by our ability to transcend them. And in that transcendence, we find true freedom — the kind that allows us to shine with the light we once sought outside ourselves.