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Friday, August 29, 2014


When the dark wave overcomes the mind and the soul is chained, left to drown, in the sea of loneliness all hope might be lost.

But there lies, at the bottom of that ocean, a cauldron of fire. An ember of pure hatred; a well of fiery passion.

This ember, when uncovered, pours hot energy into the sea.

The waters will churn and currents will flow.

The surface will ripple and twirl as the hot explosion of rage wells forth.

The tranquility of the many ships set adrift on the infinite expanse can only be disrupted by the rage that pours from the heart.

The rage that can shred perception and bring fury to the brow.
The rage that seeps out of the windows to the soul and can be a beacon of alarm to those around the body.

The rage is all consuming.

Inside the mind the rage grows in intensity; an ever-enlarging storm of passion.
The peaceful surface of the waters are gone and each lifeboat that was adrift before has shifted into a ship. The ships cease to represent individuals but, rather, the connections to those individuals.

The whirling waters strike forth and dash these connections into ruins.
The ships of the mind splinter and fracture; they creak and they groan. They explode under the pressures of the currents induced in the waters of self loathing by the engorged power of hatred.

The fires burn brightest when the skies are darkest.

When the sea of loneliness is a mirror in the dark, and the chains are pulling your lifeboat under: that is when the soul's coal will rupture the ocean floor.

The rage burns off the waters of sadness, leaving a dry abyss of cracked mud in the center of a whirlpool. A whirlpool with walls that go up forever. A whirlpool who, when the rage is gone, will crash back onto the weighted soul with a crushing blow, to tear at the soul in another cascade of ichor; another dark wave that will wash over it and baptize it in a sense of futility.

The rage is always there; it is always smoldering. It is always consuming the fuel that it is given. The rage is the antidote to the unbearable lack of purpose of existence.

But, the antidote is as bad as the poison it cures for the raging maelstrom of hate burns the soul. It brands it with each passing, leaves clear scars of all the angers it has faced. The brands tell the stories that the chains cannot and the chains; the chains, tell the stories that have quenched the fires.

As fire can, through its powerful conflagration, force water to steam and that steam can be harnessed as power so, too, can the waters flood out the embers.

The fire brings the currents, the currents whip and froth the surface of the polished ocean and rip the depressant tranquility out of existence. The rage burns its course and the seas once again extinguish it.

The cycle is forever repeating.

So long as the soul exists. So long as the focal point can perceive. So long as there is an "I" to feel the pain and anguish and rage. So long as there is a lone individual calling into the infinite night hoping someone in another life raft will answer.

So long as existence is so, too, will the cycle continue.

For now the ember glows quietly in the deep ocean of sadness. Lurking and waiting for the next spark to strike off an eruption.

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