Spilling Blood

He examines the newest set of scales on the table, trying to get his fingers used to the weight of truth. But being honest isn’t difficult, he thinks. Anyone can tell the truth whenever they feel like it. So a real challenge would look more like integrity rather than honesty. This set of scales embodies everything that he hasn’t been up until this point, and it hurts him a little to discover that an object is always more honest than a human being. And if he allows himself to touch the truth, an object can never be dishonest at all, because it’s been made to be what it’s supposed to be.

But he’s just been informed of the exact price of dishonesty, or any kind of defiling action. It may be a goat, or a ram, or a bull or a lamb, but the cost is always related to something without defect or fault. Something beautiful (something that has life, which is always beautiful). If he allows himself to cut corners, he’d find himself cutting something else in the process, and four corners are suddenly drenched with blood.

It’s the blood that makes the ground he stands on slippery, and even if he thinks it isn’t fair, at least it’s not his blood that’s being spilled.

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