Long Campaign

Get past anger, past hostility? Past the prime of hate-fuelled vitriolic scuttlebuggery. Easier said than done. The tempest of human emotions is very violent and strong is the pull. The dark side I see. Am I supposed to be a Jedi stifling and transgressing pain and the anger that has been fostered? Oh I do indeed try, I may wallow in the mire and entertain the wind in the willows, I chance to ruminate on bad egg on my face but I do try, forcing away evil intentions, bullheaded aspirations. China shop closed. But o would not the revenge be so deliciously sweet? Flinging fists like Popeye roundabout ready heads for the scramble. Shadowboxing past and each swing feels so justified, so sinfully good, and not some stupid yogurt ‘good.’ I picture their faces bruised and bloody aside the clenched fists, my own curling fast into balls of fury at the imagining, madness mists swirling my head till the inevitable crunch of reality; this is unhealthy,  absurd childish feelings. I am grown past aggression, past bullies, separate from the shroud of hate patiently waiting to envelop.

And now where to go? Stuck between two worlds amid the endless, possibly fruitful, growing pains thicke with regret and transcendance. I am here and there, grey nowhere, guess I forgot to put the fog lights in. Trekking over vast stretches of maturity in a form battling demons. Sin, addiction, lethargy, emptiness, anger, confusion. I am weak, tired all the same. Stronger on a good day, better without the bottle. My elixirs do me damage as they pick up the spirits. Few solaces, losing vices, losing me maybe. Battles are not wars, battles are the wages of a long campaign. We’ll see.

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