Sand and shovels

Sometimes I want to hurt them.


Aggression swells and storms inside me like enraged water pounding against the wall of a dam, grips my jaw forcing my teeth into a grin, twists itself around my body and tightens its hold like a coiling serpent. It makes it hard to breathe, yet it feeds me.

Sometimes I want to rip people in two. See them flail helplessly as the blood escapes their corpse like a river spilling onto the embankment in hard rain. No antics, display of skill or combat tactics. Only guttural, primordial violence. Savagery. My spine tingles with warmth as the images pass my view: gushing blood, cartilage moaning in sweet crackling agony, skulls fracturing into shrapnel, skin tearing from snow white knuckles...

Violence is not in my nature, but sometimes... sometimes I wish it were.

All I see around me are cowards draped in insecurities, hiding behind profiling, stereotypes and a megaphone melded into their hand to ward off any possibility of vocal intrusion. Turning from whispering to screaming and back, ears red with blood, the white noise overbearing and overpowering.

People sedate themselves with fundamentals, the blank slate, the black & white. The whatever man, whatever. The empty bliss of subtracting freeform thinking from the mix, opting for a funnel of borrowed knowledge and hearsay inserted into the receptive canal. Easy to swallow, easy to digest, easy to flush down the toilet and forget. Though I suppose that's the point. To exchange growth - admittedly often a steep slope - for a smoother ride, allowing oneself the luxury of having no viewpoint whatsoever; especially one that might contradict that day's atmosphere around the water cooler. I mean, who in the world would rather have an opinion their own than sail the gentle socialite seas on a dead calm? Oh, I couldn't imagine.

Must be a true blessing for those taken aback by the very notion of reflection, imagination and a wide lens perspective, not to mention correspondence and exchange. Unbeknownst to most, however, is that sedative's quality to quickly turn addictive. The veil before your eyes grows into a comforting padded cell protecting you from the wicked world. That's when you know you're in trouble - when you've become addicted to ignorance. When you find comfort in knowing you're none the wiser and the void inside turns deceptive and you feel like you're filled to the brim. When you're content being an empty vessel. Then again, I guess you wouldn't notice anyway.

Someone once asked me if I was worried that homosexuals would try to recruit me, should I find myself in said company. This question didn't pass through the lips of a child waving a sand shovel, but a grown man, on the outside every bit as knowledgeable of the ways of the world as one might expect. Yet thoroughly dumbed down by his own insecurity, thus rendering him halfway paralyzed and tied to a leash he needn't garb. I certainly understand the concept of fear's numbing quality and can empathize with how it would be easier to sort through the muck by sipping a cocktail of ignorance, wanton paranoia and judgement. But it certainly does no favors for belief in mankind to find yourself wondering how the fuck some people can work through dressing themselves on a daily basis, never mind the fact that they stumble onwards with sheer blood curdling stupidity.

I suppose I shouldn't complain. I certainly don't flatter myself thinking I split the skies the sharpest arrow from the quiver - I'm just a guy who responds rather with what the fuck than whatever. The state of complacency irritates me almost as much as the act of giving up. Still, recent times and encounters have proven at least a chunk of my cynicism unwarranted. They say a pessimist is never disappointed - which I would disagree with - but switching stance to the optimistic (gasp) I would have to contend that expecting less and being met with more does offer a jolt. One that seems to always catch you off-guard. These last weeks have come a-callin' with a hefty amount of surprises, good times and inspiration. Then again, perhaps that's the point?

Optimism scares me shitless, because when that castle slips through the clouds and crashes, it makes the setback's bite sting twice as hard. It makes me remember why I wanted to hurt them.

Hurt you.