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Blood On The Page

Here I am again, speaking to you, the call that forever beckons, the ear endlessly bent to hear my dying voice. I am but a whisper in this world trailing the winds, distant and remote, eternally cursed to witness and observe, but never to enjoy and partake. If this is to be my fate, so be it, but you should know by now that a Man like me does not lay down into pitiful subservience. The only time I will take any pose somewhat resembling submission is when Im laid to rest in a pine box for the long haul.

I've been asked numerous times why I continue to press forward, to wage silently yet passionately against the demons accosting me at every turn, eyeing me hungrily whilst shrouded in their darkness, the shadow that has stifled the light within me, enveloping me in the unknown. I do so because my soul yearns for more, for an inkling of a future where my life is once again under my soveriegn control and I am purposefully and personally driven.

 I salivate at the prospect of willing my dreams into tangible reality, and wage war against all treasonous and traitorous parts of my character that sabatogingly seek to imprison me within the crumbling artifice of my past identity. My heart is an enraged lion trapped behind bars of balsa wood, with a deafening, malicious roar that would split my ribcage in two, freeing me from the confines of false societal expectation. To be reborn in toil and struggle and emerge from the clutter and din of combat as a true Anarch, inciting a revolution of self.

Alienation is a close, dear friend of mine, reassuring me that I am tougher than I believed initially, and rejustifying my belief in the sadism inherent in people. To judge someone purely based on hearsay, without taking the time to speak to them, and lording a false sense of superiority over them, then becoming defensive and claiming victimization when they lash out is the height of folly. But I take it all in stride, as I've had to for the sake of remaining free and unincarcerated the places Ive been. As stated before, books make the most pleasant company.

My visage is a shattered mirror, and the peculiarly broken visit regularly to avail themselves of my sharpened edges. They desire to bleed for reasons unbeknownst to me, though I believe it a type of self-inflicted sacrifice at the altar of our shared pain. The darkest dance of seduction known to man, and to forsake or deny it is the most abominable form of sacrilege. I know you for but a night, and as our flames are intertwined momentarily, the gasoline of realization dilutes what remained of our individualties. In that array of emotions, the tango of syncopated heartbeats, a unique consciousness is birthed, spawned from the melding of two souls. I hope for the anguish to be snuffed out permanently one of these times, embers and all, and to rise like a Phoenix from those ashes.

Here, in the nothingness, I thrive. The curtain of anonymity awakens my resolve, dormant due to disinterest in the area of study I so foolishly chose in pursuit of riches. But here, unhinged from the chains of fiscal servitude, my imagination writhes and reaches past the stars, grasping for the heavens. My words are bricks on the road I pave by Faith alone, leading me through the shrubbery and foliage of uncertainty to the gates of my destiny, as ordained by divinity. I disdain the criticism of plebians, their admonitions devolving into incantations of negativity and weakness, their originators seeking to retard my upward ascension to greatness. Adversity has taught me many things, the most potent being that the remnants of insults make great footholds.

I was baptized by the rigors of training and unrelenting conflict, a product of harsh reality and uncompromising brutality. It's gotten to the point where I feel Ive become a wolf in sheep's clothing. I read books on conflict avoidance, verbal misdirection, situational awareness, and the psychology of attack. Yet in the back of my mind, a nagging voice unnervingly reminds me that no amount of social engineering or mental trickery will ever be as effective as a thumb and two fingers, arranged like an Eagle's talon, reaching skyward with deadly intention towards the throat, seizing the trachea and squeezing malevolently for a few silent seconds, or quick one two, second knuckle of the middle finger protruding during each punch, aimed directly at the eyes, or hooked around to either temple, enough to stun, incapacitate or kill a man. As spoken by Peyton Quinn, however, "there's no pussy in jail or in the graveyard". I play that line on repeat, rattling judiciously around my skull, preventing me from striking.

During the moments I feel like I have no subject matter to elaborate on, my emotions spring forth and hand me their scripts, the distillation of my most buried thoughts and feared secrets. It's a process similar to fasting, where, given a lack of sufficient material to work with, my mind draws from a treasuretrove of untapped maladies, a reservoir of unspoken experiences. It builds a type of independent confidence within me, to know that to do the thing that defines me on my most basic level, I require nothing but my own voice.

The nights before returning to the grind of the job are always the most unbearable. I am blessed, incredibly so, to be here, to have such a relaxed, gracious schedule. It's essentially 50/50, granting me ample opportunity to explore and partake in paradise. During those pristine stretches of idyllic wandering, ideas manifest from thin air, passion gives way to focused effort, and the future seems boundless, as expansive as the ocean's horizon. But, as my requirements rear their repugnant profiles my way once more, Im filled with even more enthusiasm to escape, to bring my empire to life and my vision to fruition. I must write, I must train. And I will never stop.

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