Tuesday, November 16, 2004

To love is to know hate

As though it were not plainly obvious. As though the consequences of these experiments remained a mystery. The erosion of spirit, calculated, sought, even celebrated. The tracks left on ego and soul were, in fact, the goal, not a side-effect. Insidiously, the highs were timed and coordinated as precisely as the lows; for how can one truly feel, but in contrast. A system in place to break, to ply, to build, to secure. Playing mother with one hand, devil with the other. Those once named victim, in turn taking charge. And so it goes. The collective never tires, never softens, never fills. Yet here I sit, dumb and mute, but to myself. For I, as much as any other, ushers them through the doors, those jaws of strife. Boys, no longer boys, exit.


The lines in bold were plagiarized. Stolen to provide fodder for this exercise in prose.


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