I feel things. They prickle and the bubble up. I can not ignore them God knows I've tried. Where once affection seeded not rots loathing so putrid and black that the malice infects me with venomous rage that spills forth from my being and over runs the very air around me. I breath back in my own bile. I hate someone. Deeply and truly and purely as I ever loved. What does one do with these feelings. How does one explain away the undying ache of vengeance gone undone. I am undone by the ways of men and women who profess so much and do so little. I spit on their proclamations. Lies, lies all. Or perhaps not. Perhaps not lies, but simply they are just words. I am surrounded by men and women of inaction when in my heart burns dimly, wishes to burn brightly once again, the call to arms of the passion that once was. Where there be tigers, no be dust and within the dust and bones of the rotted corpse of long dead love stirs not a memory of sweetness but a sickly sweet hate. Oh rest ye merry gentleman sung by the mercilessness of Holiday splendor. I concede to my own material distractions. I use want and trinkets to cover my worn-heel soul.
BUT SHE! Oh but she a devious miser, one how poisons with honey and uses her charmless charms to bend a will. She! She who lives a passionless life, who forced out her family and friends to foster relations with a man of very little consequence. Oh for she, I wish a many splendor in hell. Thus spoke the bitter, bitter truth. As I typed these words I felt the twinge of remorse for this evening. but it was to no avail. What good was remorse, what good was pity, regret, longing , hate had ratchet loose with in me the restless unease that bewildered and haunted me always. I am haunted still. I am a garden of ghosts who grow like wisteria, like orchids strangling life with their exotic symbiosis. I think about the long days and nights I need to recover from the most minuscule of slights and I wonder how am I to survive in this world. My skin to thin my head too stubborn my heart too supple. I am a man now, I should put aside childish things. I have watched my friends take down their boxes and trunks and fill them to the brim with dreams and wishes, lustful gazes and unrequited embraces. I care not to dream less. I will not silence my tongue, not for anyone. NEVER AGAIN.
You who bring forth the holocaust of emotions should know now, and for ever hold this tenuous peace: I will not Forgive and Forget, I rarely forgive and I never forget. This may be my great injustice, to myself and to my fellow man. An injustice to the self may serve me a greater fortitude in the hours to come. I have a story to tell. Hows and whys. What fors and what withs. I took the Empire Builder to raze my city-soul. I razed my soul to build an empire. I stayed true to my heart even as it broke within my breast. Of these things I can be proud. I am a humorless fuck-wit. I'm a charming bastard. I am a loving and loyal servant; I am a firm handed master. I am all these things and nothing all at once. I am the voice inside the head of the writer. He types not knowing his way. This is the story i want to tell. Why I inhabit his body, riding the veins and capillaries like highways over the Dark Continent that is the human.
Head this warning. All good things do not come to those who wait, and this entire story is true. Only the names of the innocent have been changes, be damned for those who are wicked.
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