Words are weaons

I’m tired. I’ve been tired for a long time.

No. Tired isn’t the right word for it.

I’m fatigued.

It’s a soul-deep weariness. An exhaustion tinged from frustration and months of heightened anxiety. It mixes with days of contentment, followed by hours of guilt and self-loathing.

Such a strange thing—feeling guilt for feeling peace. What trick have I played on myself to find myself here? What madness has society instilled in me?

It is surreal.

I’ve never felt comfortable as part of a crowd. I need to either stand apart and observe or move to lead. I don’t know if I possess a full serving of humanity’s herd normality.

Not that I am immune, either.

But, the more divided and decisive the world becomes, the more isolated and alienated I feel.

I do not possess your ability for zeal, my friend. I have feigned it—time and again; I have pretended. But, I do not have it in me.

My passion lies in the opposition, not in the joining.

It does not stop the weight of your judgement from dragging down my spirit.

You don’t see me as the type to stay quiet. I don’t blame you. I’ve spent the majority of my life convincing you and everyone else.

I am loud, free, and unhindered by social conventions.

I’m a dirty liar.

I used to think I was never ashamed of saying what I believe. An idea is worth pursuing and discussing. If I’m wrong, I learn. I grow.

Words are weapons.

I never understood. I’d say whatever crossed my brain.



Lashing out with a dozen razor blades and never seeing the blood splattered on the floor.

I have no excuse. How many times have I sat in the dark and lived the same moments of pain, the same hated words running across my mind?

I don’t like being the asshole.

I’m good at it, but I don’t like it.

I try to harness my natural tendency to assert and dominate for forces of good. I do. I will match my will against even the most iron-clad jerk.

My contempt is a Muramasa blade. It must draw blood before it can be sheathed. Even if it has to draw blood from its wielder.

I can’t keep drawing it forth. My spirit is already marred with thousands of tiny scars.

I don’t know how much more of that I can take.

It was easier when I lived in ignorance. When I could assume my words always fell on def ears—or at least ears ignoring them.

Now, I know better. It is getting harder to summon the will to spit venom every day.

And I don’t know where that leaves me.