Brethren, oblivion is not the road to the city Ataraxis II

These days, inconsolable, ominous and pensive, I care little for conflict, for frustration, fury, despair, and hasty forgiveness. I care little for the disappointment of the uncomfortable silence that follows, the forgetting that assists me & my brethren in avoiding the problems at hand; the trespasses, injuries withheld from the light which remain still, fermenting within the dark corners of our minds. It strengthens the hatred, while deepening the murky waters of past discordance, wounds left open to fester & merge. Such things rouse nothing but the devil in me; decayed face of my split persona I dread & eschew-- stirred awake, stares back & defies reason 'n virtue, drives me to do that which ignites the passion of ill-will in those who I call my brethren. He wishes to hold dominion over my gentle soul, so he urges me in blind anarchy of thought to dominate those that I hold close, fostering guilt & horror within my tender spirit of which I hold fast. He does this so that, in the process of my spiritual crucifixion, I am left no defense-- For he builds upon the self-hatred whose seed my mother planted & claims I've already submitted; that all tender presence of my body 'n mind is only weakness clinging to denial. I am then isolated in ways that make the very word, solitude, inadequate-- left tending to the fire of my quiet rage, uncertain. Half of me wishes to expel all that is sadistic, savage, & wicked by ravaging whatever is close. The other half strives to rise above such psychic emotion, so that I may fulfill a dream that strays further from my grasp with each passing day-- a vision that I passionately yearn to make a reality. I know too well what it is I do that offends, injures, & degrades others. Like ghosts, actions haunt me, burning, always present in waking thought, with roots that stem from the unconscious. I care little for the pauses in disturbed silence offering amends. You brethren, & I gain nothing from forgetfulness. Make known what wounds exist-- do not restrain your tongue, offering words of quick apology or gracious forgiveness & accession. But do not reveal your concerns in frustration. I care little for it. Brethren, do it not in blind fury or hateful despair. I care little for it. Please, my brothers-- do not express emotion through acts of derision. I care little for it. Only my bedeviled self revels in such things-- thrives upon it; & he, my brethren, does not care to resolving anything that drives us further apart. So do not dare ever to forget anything; not a fucking thing, for mistakes & injuries forgotten are left to be repeated. Know patience, brethren, know sound voice & calm resolve-- know that a soft voice is what my true self, who is tender, hears true. It is the only voice that is deathly clear within these planes of compassion & bloody agony that form this chaotic mind that is mine.