Don’t get me wrong, I like being a troll.
A goblin, a critter, a beastie of the night. I like being one of the gutter-people, the shadow-monsters, the whispers you don’t want to hear.
The light shines brightest down here. We have no light of our own, you see. So every spark of light that we receive is cherished, nourished, and polished until it shines, shines brighter than anything in your world.
And we collect it. Soft words and gentle whispers, sweet murmurs and the smile of a young lady. Diamonds and gold jewelry. A single pearl. A single happy tear.
That’s what we are. The thing you don’t want to know is behind you. The thing that you pass, not looking, the shadow you don’t squint into. We’re your collective shiny guilt, the puddle that mucks up your clean shoes, the gust of wind when you’ve just gotten your hair done.
We are everything, everything dirty and nasty and dark that you fear. And we love your bright bits, your earrings and your laughter, your brand new jacket and that hope you hold close to your chest. We collect them, shine them, and hang them in our gutter homes, our basement bowers, for light and warmth.
And while you drop your hopes into the gutter for us, the way you drop a couple pennies in a cup, we shine them up and hope they will keep the deepest dark away.
Because the light may shine brightest down here, but the shadows, oh. The shadows are like you’ve never seen.
Pray to your gods that you never have cause to find out just how dark.
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