“I’m older than you and I’m going to tell you something I hope sits with you for a very long time. I have suffered madness in my life, as you well know. and I have done things that haunt my dreams every night. I have suffered blinding rage so intense that I literally do not remember what I have done. And for years I told myself: well that wasn’t me, it was madness. But I can tell you from experience… it was me. It was all me. There’s no cosmic force that wanted to make the world the way you wanted it. There’s no other thing out there that wanted to kill your father figure for defying you. You wanted it. You wanted it and you did it.”
It begins with a tingle.
An itching feeling, if you will.
It resides in the back of the mind,
Like a seed planted on the side of the road.
The thought doesn’t grow quickly,
It doesn’t rush, it takes its time.
The tingle moves to an itch,
A scratching sensation,
A reminder of the potential possibility,
That what you are feeling is true.
In time words change meaning,
Passing greetings are seen out of the norm,
Time spent in itself is reconstructed.
The whole manor of being, begins to shift.
Then as if flood gates opened,
All at once, you realize the feeling is a deep,
Seething, hatred.
