Like a little bit of dust, I can pick the creatures up and crush them in my hand without feeling bad for what I have done. Without even thinking, I can tear apart the fundament of all that stands before me, and without even flinching, let a smile loose.

You go look in the mirror, and I'm curious as to just what you see. Is there anything to see beyond your surface? Is there anything more than just a mold of material belying what you truly are?

Or is there just a void, a blank where something would be if you could let it? Would there just be your jealousy and your rage building up within? I do not have the proper words to say to you to help you understand, for there is no way to understand that which, for some, was never meant to be understood.

And when banish the dust in my hands to another plane of existence, when I destroy the dust, what results? Absolutely nothing, for nothing ever came from the eradication of that which deserves it.

So complain a little harder about how unfair life is. About how unfair it all is. And maybe you'll find a reason to pick up a knife and use it.

But maybe you won't. Like dust in the wind, you'll just blow away, blow away, and go on to be swept back some other day.