We are Wrath


For when we were crafted God did bestow us rage for we are in the colosseum ever battling the evils that pour forth from the depths of Hell. What other weapon shall man use than his rage and hate? For love is only given to those we hold dear, and demons and treacherous foes do we not hold dear.

Hatred is our gift from the Heavens. Our gift to spread unto the wicked. Our hate is the light the scourge cower away from like a roach in torchlight. For if we gave our love to our enemies we would prefer to hug at every injustice done unto us rather than fight.

For we are in the colosseum. Cast out of Eden, as is our punishment for treachery. To fare in this forsaken place we must fight, for the judge in this realm is not God, but his forlorn follower, Satan. Like a bored King he watches our struggles as his armies made up of our once fellow man seek to destroy us. For he has corroded their hearts with illusion and like a curtain blocks the light of the sun, so too has Satan blocked their heart from the Truth of God.

And fight on we must. We fight on because in the colosseum God is our lover in the crowd. Ever cheering on, for he knows we can accomplish what we must as long as we try and kindle the fire in our hearts. For the only true failure is not death but of apathy, of giving up, and worse yet, crossing over and giving ourselves entrance into the kingdom of Satan.

So I call to you brothers and sisters: Do not shy away from hatred nor rage. For it is nothing more than pitch to fuel the flames of passion in your soul and heart. Without it we would merely seek to let ourselves fall prey to evil, when we know when Truth touches us that our destiny is not to fall prey willingly at the feet of villainy, but to rise up and slay it down.

Just Keep Going

“Why are you so tired all the time lately?” His friend asked.

He turned his head to him, his eyelids shrouded in black, his eyes glossed over, “I don’t know.”

“Well cut it out!” He laughed.

The man sighed and looked back on to his computer. He knew why. He didn’t feel like talking about it because he knew that route. It wouldn’t solve anything. Getting things off your chest simply doesn’t help him. It makes it worse.

He also knew all that any sympathy or “empathy” shown would be an act. So what was the point? And it was over a girl. Guys never get hung up on girls anymore. Dudes aren’t fragile these days. Only the losers are.

He looked onto his computer and surfed around youtube. He played songs with album covers and would just stare and imagine himself playing the songs and being set free.

What’s the point? Why am I still alive? No. Don’t think like that.

He couldn’t stop his mind from wondering.

If I went home tonight and killed myself they would have to clean out my room. I would be killing myself over a stupid reason. She loves me but doesn’t want to be with me. That’s enough to set this off. That’s enough for me to see through the “illusion of life.” What’s the point of life is love isn’t happening?

He thought about what she was doing and wanted to cry out, but couldn’t, because he can’t cry.

“Hey, you alright?” His boss asked.

He looked up with his eyes and met his boss’s. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

He felt annoyed but quelled it, “yeah I’m sure, just tired.”

“Okay.” His boss’s eyes looked skeptical.

He knows I’m lying.

He would drive home in his car with no A/C  in 100 degree weather and would sweat too much into his shirt and would feel dehydrated and would stumble into his room  and strip down to his underwear and would spin a record and lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.

He looked at the alcohol that sat on his bookshelf.

Don’t do it. You’ll go too far. Music. That’s all I need. But she’s not feeling like this. What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?

He didn’t move for 6 hours. He might as well have died. He sure did want to.