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Sometimes I wish I could just vent my ire and it would be to good use. How I wish to show my distaste and still yet not harmed by such emotions. But I am trapped. Why explain the troubles to a listener’s ears when they can do nothing, absolutely nothing to help? Is there ever a point anymore? All the disgusted feelings, vengeful thoughts, contemptuous views covered in slimy bitterness are all I own, kept in my attic of a mind, taking up space and distracting visiting ideas. If they could only see, those who had caused my misery, if they could only know and understand, is it so hard to walk in another’s shoes, if only for a brief moment? Would not that reconcile conflicts and ridiculous enmity? What torture, what torment, bottled up emotions kept in boxes, for what may I ask? If it is so useless can’t it just fade? Please.

Why that eternal question lingers in still empty air? Would they not have mercy on an already desolate soul, precarious mind? I absolutely loathe this place, this moment in time, bleak future ahead, sweet unforgettable past, and coarse present along with all the squalor of misfortune. Who will listen? Why should I tell? If there is no purpose, where is the motivation? I cannot seek comfort in this world for I live in it. Nor can I seek it in the next for I am not there yet, furthermore, life seem to cling to me in a death struggle. Yet who is the true culprit? Certainly not life itself, all the honeyed words of poets and writers and historians and theologians have rendered that impossible in my mind.

Who else then? What? The world of course, it is the world in all its ridiculous splendor of prejudice and bigotry and baseless assumptions. It seeks to destroy me, oh those ungrateful, ignorant masses of disintegrating colors. I only ask for less than a century of peace upon this world. Can’t it grant me that at least? All the little pieces around me, ah so nice, so thankful, so mannerly, elegant words, gracious acknowledgement, an idyllic little place, yet the painters themselves are ruthless. They do not care what the pieces think nor ever will. Those in their lofty seats, those whose roles are reversed from this, those with years a little more than us, sometimes I wish to brutally throw Shaw’s quote at them “Those who can, does, those who cannot, teac...” Would they ever heed anything like that? Of course not, I instead would be the one who is puerile. We are no longer people, but a drill, a monotonous practice that just happens to be wrought of flesh and bones and soul. If we live, fine, if I die, fine.

Can they not see they hold eager futures in their hands? A life to live, a life beyond? Will they give no thoughts to what is planned, what is hoped and what is suppose to be? Who are they to mold fates and futures deserved or undeserved? Can they not see destinies drifting away and high hopes dashed, shattering into millions of small pieces, now dull and gray, without luster?

A/N: Trite hackneyed, the personal truth.


------
The conscious shape reality.


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Comments

The following comments are for "Emotions 6th of May 2002"
by Furius

nice rant
It's interesting. You have an interesting writing style, kind of a signature world weary style. I like your line "squalor of misfortune". Of course, I criticize your forgiveness of life and indictment of the world. To what extent to these phrases "life' and "the world" even have meaning? I suppose I like your beginning and your end but don't like your middle. Good work.

( Posted by: Seanspacey [Member] On: May 9, 2002 )





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