If you are happy, you must be without children. I speak the truth; remember your scorn when the unhappy clamor in protest, “children are happiness; children are innocence,” the time-worn, miserable cry. The only innocence is their own; they are fools blinded by the cold downpour shrouding their lives. Children. Innocence. Words like these are worthy only of derision.
Happy human, don’t allow your gaze to become hypnotized by their sweet faces. Their bulging cheeks are mere wads of gelatin storing nourishment for the growth of their parasitic bodies. Their doe-like eyes are disproportionate half-stages, testimonies to incomplete transformations and nothing else. Peel away these soft textures with the edge of a blade, and beneath you’ll find an interior indistinguishable from Hitler’s.
They scream and cling in a paroxysm of need to the skirts of the miserable. And the miserable, children themselves, mistake this for love! The “love” of children is a feline love: a celebration of brutal self-preservation without a glimpse at the cost. And the cost, to be sure, is everything.
Yes, everything, including happiness. Happy one, beware the cruelty of children! They will seize you with clawed fingers and strip you of your health, possessions, and contentment without so much as an apology. When they have done this, they will leave you naked and bleeding in the sand, whistling a cheery tune as they disappear over the ledge and into their own misery. As you lie mourning their heartless departure, they will exaggerate your failures and advertise your shortcomings to their friends and new families; they will laugh at your humiliations and thrive on the consolation that their own misery is your fault, oh unhappy one—it will always be your fault. In a terrible finale, they will swarm your deathbed and clamor for your possessions like bidders at an auction. Thus you will end: a mere feast for beasts.
-C. M. Bartolomeo