Rage and hate burn away all other emotions, but they leave behind toxic ashes.

One day at a time. Each day drags, one day at a time. Substances make time pass faster, make life more bearable. Wondering always if there is one more thing to worry about, to feel. Guilt. Regret? One more bolt of regret. A dagger skins the conscious being, never letting it feel peace. Piece. Chunks of it.

Every day the rage grows. It isn’t always at the forefront. Screaming, punching, breaking, slamming. It’s subtle sometimes, like an inert volcano. Magma bubbles beneath until that breaking point, that breaking point where there’s an eruption. I can feel you death. Your claws reach but can’t catch yet. Staring into the hollow pits you call eyes, beholding the horror of beyond.

What about death? What about it? Consider the moment of death, knowing that it’s coming. There is no cure, no one to help. Only death. Do we feel death arrive? Does it make a grand entrance, or does it merely stumble backstage as we live the last few moments of life, waiting like a proud parent when out performance is done?

Death and pain are friends, but they have separate lives. Death teaches us one lesson, but pain teaches many. Death and pain. Rage. There is nothing but anger and there aren’t enough places to scream on this planet to lose it all. The killing comes to mind, right? Stab wounds, gunshots, crushing, beating, burning, hanging, strangling, drowning, bleeding. All normal. All feelings that are valid. Every piece of it all fits into place.

One cannot be expected to sit here and read such ramblings.

Rage, flowing forth as a molten stream of ire and vigor, hotter than any star. Blood, pain, death, rage burns them all away. Happiness, acceptance, kindness, rage burns them too. Anger incinerates, and leaves behind a greasy, sooty mess that stains the godamn soul to its core. Not even blood taken in retribution can wash the ashen marks. The scars of hot embers.

Anger always has fuel. It’ll eat all I feed it, and I have too much to give. I am a furnace, and this world hates my anger. Peace. Peace is the way to go, but what if one is not peaceful? What if one is prone to violence, pain, hate, and death? What place is reserved for those who resist peace, or who cannot accept peace, or worst of all, is unable to accept peace?

Each moment of peace is perforated by guilt. Guilt of lost time towards important things. Each moment of peace is corrupted by the passage of time, one second ticking away after the other. Blood leaks, time passes, and death swings his scythe, one loping swath, clear-cutting, grisly bounty. Harvest.

I am tried. Tired and angry. Cold. Energy used for staying awake and being polite wants to be transformed towards more active imaginings. I am tired.

So tired.


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