This feeling is difficult to describe. It is not unlike rage. Some seething, churning, burning tumult of an emotion. But it's not anger, it's sadness. It's an aggressive sadness. Not a depression, but an impression; like something is pushing in on my soul. Something foreign and foul. Something that scalds my insides like an acid. And the only way to fight it is to lash out.
I feel cornered. Like some rodent with his leg caught in a snare; my flesh is bleeding rot and pus. I feel I need to strike or my own existence will cease. Covered in my own bile, I want nothing more than to cover you in yours.
If there is a God, he is not on your side.
You cower and yet revel in your weakness. Bask in the glow of your own degredation. Your resentment of anything progressive indicates an ignorance and unwillingness to change. Your isolationism is disdainful. Your intolerance and ambivalence is hypocritical. And your arrogance is shameful.
You claim piety. You claim holiness. You claim precedence. You claim grace. Disagreement is heresy. Your god is a fascist.
There is hope for me. I'm not completely hopeless. The religious have their rapture. The communists have their revolution. The rich have their money. I have my friends and my family, my wit (I think)and my writing.
And that's better than any heaven you can convince me of.
"I don't need your opium."
You claim piety. You claim holiness. You claim precedence. You claim grace. Disagreement is heresy. Your god is a fascist.
There is hope for me. I'm not completely hopeless. The religious have their rapture. The communists have their revolution. The rich have their money. I have my friends and my family, my wit (I think)and my writing.
And that's better than any heaven you can convince me of.
"I don't need your opium."