Stoicism is for the Dead

I am from dauntless stoicism,
    and denounced belief.
I am from contagious outbursts,
    hidden behind blissful carelessness.
I am from the persecution of ignorance,
    and the love of knowledge.

I’m from cold nights
    with warm books.
I’m from brown leaves,
    and turkey dinners.
I’m from love and care,
    and morals I don’t get.

I am from Christ,
    born of the blood
    only to turn the blood
    into flames of disdain.
I am from certainty
    in me, myself, and I.
I am from vocabulary
    that fails me when I need it most.

I’m from a long-haired cat
    purring on my lap.
I’m from pointless anime,
    watched on pointless days,
    with an all to pointed philosophy.
I’m from Ryserian, Thallus,
    and countless others
    whose stories wait to be told.
I’m from creating
    when I thought there was nothing left to create.

I am from me,
    and I’d never want to be from anything else.