by Christopher Kirk
I release you, crutch of the mind, fetter of the soul, now from my keep. I no longer tread the crude paths you once preached; I am no longer driven by your will. Lists, aggregates, truths: I required none of these to look with eyes of compassion, to restrain my bloodthirsty tongue, to treat strangers as my kin. I thus toss you now, to die among your kind - the tissues, the magazines, the papers - to be processed and remade into something of use, a journal, perhaps, for the recording of my own thoughts. After all these years of studying your words, I have learned but one lesson: I need no master to teach me humanity. My humanity is my own.
Christopher Kirk is an undergraduate majoring in journalism at Northwestern University.