These days, inconsolable, ominous and pensive, I care little for conflict, for frustration, fury, despair, derision, and hasty forgiveness. I care little for the disappointment of the uncomfortable silence that follows, and the forgetting that assists me and my brethren in avoiding the problem at hand, the trespasses, the injury, misconduct withheld from the light which remain still, fed by the dark corners of our mind. It strengthens the hatred, while deepening the murky waters of past discordance, the combined wounds left open to fester and merge with each other. Such things rouse nothing but the devil in me. The decaying face of my split persona, who is me, the me I so dread and eschew-- who, awakened, stares back and defies reason and virtue, urging me to do that which ignites the passion of ill will in those I call brethren. He wishes to hold dominion over my caring soul. So he urges me in blind anarchy of thought to dominate those that I hold close, simply to foster guilt and horror in me-- the tender spirit of which I hold fast. He does this so that, in the process of my crucifixion, I am left no defense, for he builds upon the self-hatred of which my mother gave birth, claims that I have already the will to submit, that all tender presence of my body and mind is weakness that clings to denial. I am then after made alone in ways that make the very word, solitude, inadequate. Left tending to the fire of my rage, uncertain-- half of me desiring to expel all that is turbulent, morose, and sadistic by ravaging whatever is closest, half of me striving to conquer such wickedness so that I may fulfill a dream which strays further from possibility... I know too well what it is I do that offend, injure, and degrades others. Like ghosts, actions haunt me. Their presence is at hand whenever I am conscious. I care little for pauses in disturbing silence that offer amends. You brethren, and I gain nothing from forgetfulness. Make known what is and lie not by restraining your tongue with offerings of apology, or by gracious accession. But do it not in frustration. I care little for it. Do it not in fury or despair. I care little for it. Do it not by acts of derision. I care little for it. But my decayed self revels in it, thrives upon it, and he my brethren cares little for resolving anything expressed through such means. So do not dare ever to forget anything; not a fucking thing, for mistakes and injuries forgotten are left to be repeated. Know patience, brethren, know sound voice and calm resolve-- know that a soft voice is what my true self, who is tender, hears true; it is the voice that is deathly clear in the planes of compassion and bloody agony that form this chaotic mind that is mine.