I am not a good man.
There is no virtue in me that is anything but accidental - a mishap of incidental proportions. My flaws are myriad and manifest, and the weight of my sins make the earth groan beneath me. If I say I do good, there is no truth in me, because doing good is counter to my deepest self.
What right do I have to say I am virtuous, when all I do is driven by ego and self-interest? When forced into self-reflection, it is all I can do to not vomit in disgust at my paltry efforts at virtuousness. Naught I do, but it comes to ill and harm.
I cry to the heavens - where is the justice that I have health, when better people do not? Why should I have prosperity when worthy folk go without? Why do I possess these gifts of understanding, of artistry, of wit, but have naught of worth to create thereby?
After all, what am I but another fallen soul?
