I simply stood there and took it, worse, I thought it was right, allowing myself to be moulded by the doctrines of others. A malleable man sculpted by amateur artisans without vision or talent, I stood as a terracotta warrior, seeing myself as stoic but bound by stilted strictures scribbled on scrap and shoved carelessly into my head. Full of silt I called grit, glazed eyes and a burnished countenance, I was proud of my shape and ignored my counterintuitive commands and crumbling base, not yet understanding how to saw off my shackles, nor even see them as such.