FEEL MY HATE THE POWER IS THE WEIGHT

Be bold in your self-belief and vicious in your self-respect.

So much of me is a rage that percolates and simmers like a strong black coffee. It is all fire, fury, and filth. At the end of the day that pretty much sums it up, right? We get cast in roles we don't want to be in, for a production that plays for all of fucking eternity. Rather than bitch and whine about it like a petulant child begging for a sweet, we grab our nuts and persevere. When men are finally asked to answer for their most egregious of sins, I think our ability to just march on and persevere is our most grievous. Obviously it goes without saying there are many degenerate male scumfucks out there that would do well to cease persevering and embrace total oblivion. Torn between the idyllic and the hellish, ripped and wrested between diametrical extremes, I think each man is ultimately pulled towards one but may have a drive to reach the other. The lucky few, those that simply crash and burn, seek the immediacy of hell. Fuck, maybe there are those of us that actively desire peace and yet are constantly led towards the beckoning, black gates of hell. I would like a respite, however brief, so that I may rest. A rest for the battered soul that within me is so many slavering wolves that are bloodthirsty and ravenous with their murderous hunger. The moon is full and these creatures know only the ripping and tearing of flesh. What else do you expect when you constantly prod a wild animal? Do you expect it to adorn a smile and dance for you? Never mistake someone's kindness for weakness, nor their pacifism for tolerance.

Your rage is a gift. Never let it die or allow it to be diminished.

Do you remember what love feels like? That warmth. The sense of soul belonging. Remember what it was like to be listened to and genuinely heard? You lie awake at night, your head a soup of chaos and emotion, your heart pounds and your mind races. God, to be in love, to be loved, to be pick someone up and spin them around becomes this gesture of total release. The acceptance of someone, something, that finally exists above the self. How often do we delude ourselves into thinking that this isn't what love is supposed to be? We settle for so much less than we deserve because the void is the only alternative and she calls, beckons us, toward her like some depraved Siren. We either surrender ourselves to something totally...or we surrender ourselves to the chasm. That love, the pulling at and burning of your heart, that is the only thing that separates us from the animal instinct that causes us to pull one another apart and conquer nearby villages. We as a species exist at the precipice of complete and utter doom. We, the harbingers, of every wretched impulse that a biological machine can possess. When love stands before us that's all there is that separates the man from the animal. The walls that were meticulously constructed around us, the mathematics and planning, the design, everything that keeps the lights on, is on the brink of simply disappearing and never coming back. That love that tears at your heart like jagged fucking teeth exists to prevent the rest of you from blinking out of existence and snuffing out the next poor soul you encounter. Remember that the next time your heart gets pulled from your chest by some insensitive cunt, or the next time you suck someone else's cock because that taste eclipsed every other cognition you possessed. The bitter truth is, we were doomed from the start, and we delude ourselves into having the idea that maybe there is more than us...that we exist above everything else. The truth is that we were born in the blood and mud, just like every other mammal, and the further we claw ourselves out of it, the deeper we end up falling back into the filth. Who are we when we are not pursuing something like love to help motivate us to clean the muck off our skin? I know the answer and so do you, and it isn't pretty.

Fear really does have the rats scurrying to leave the ship.

Write yourself out of this one, bro.

I'm frustrated. I have the old frustration oozing out of my pores like congealing blood. Maybe it's a curse, or maybe it's hereditary. Something passed down from generation to generation like a certain gait or a birthmark. Either way, it's mine to bear. We have to own the shit we bring to the table. Deflecting from it only does so good for so long because sooner or later, these things must be addressed. I'd like to think that somewhere along the way, somehow, we get it right and that the things we've endured do not become us, but rather, we become who we are in spite of it all. Each of us are flawed in our own way, there exists among us not a single individual that has been free of inflicting some sort of agony, some mortal misery, on another human being. We must overcome these wounds and grow from them. Like the wildflowers that bloom from the bone pits and mass graves that exist the world over. No atrocity is ever truly atoned for and we try, we fucking try, bitterly, to exist beyond the veil of these, our hubris and tendencies toward the malign. None of us are without guilt, nor are any of us truly, divinely innocent. I have always believed that it's our flaws, those ancient wounds, that make us as redeemable as we are. Imagine if we were perfect and that we all existed in complete and utter harmony with ourselves and the universe? I think I'd chuck up my guts and choke on them.

We suffer in ways that defy the conception of others. Every internalised flaw, every self held belief, is as alien to others as theirs is to ourselves. I can look at you and see the beauty, the pain, and the abject truth that is independent of anything else, but that understanding will only ever remain surface level and superficial. Our own damage is the totality of everything we've endured and somehow lived through. Beating ourselves bloody in internal, eternal wars. Little conflicts that are never seen but their impact endures, even after the battlefield is empty and our medics are treating the wounded and cleaning the battered dead. I think, in this regard, we are all such individual creatures trapped inside of ourselves, limited only—exclusively—by how far we can extend our shaking hands through the bars and touch another's hand. Our fingertips meeting briefly as we embrace our own humanity for one fleeting moment.