Seething rage floats to the top of my consciousness. Boiling right beneath the surface, an emotional soup scalds the inside of my soul. No one to calm the waters of my heart. I am a tempest. A centennial storm, devastating the scene surrounding me. My tears turn to ash upon my face, scarring my worn and gnarled countenance. I sneer at the happy people. I scoff at any idea of true love. Romance retrieves healthy reserves of bile from my throat. I hear false words over deafening winds and roar all the louder in less than elegant protest.
Another time, the sound breaks under the noise of empty words—friendly and well-intended, but empty nonetheless. I love fearlessly, and this is my reward. I care carelessly, and am met with this callous conundrum. Hatred creeping in, where love should dwell.
I am unrequited, and there is no worse state in the union. Unrequited’s capital is self-pity; the urban sprawl encompasses the lazy, loathsome, and utterly suburban town of vanity. Its main export is famine. The deficit climbs higher in even an ecstatic economy, because Unrequited is always borrowing. Unrequited lives far outside its means. It pushes its meager resources beyond limitations, hoping to attract an outstretched hand by virtue of effort. Yet the soft and coveted hands never come.
The hands that come are barbed and vicious, teasing us while we are caught in the storms of our souls. They lend not love, but labor. They collect pain in return. They grip tightly for but a moment, long enough to toss us to and fro. They exist solely to stir the vice. To validate the vindictive. They come as shining beacons of false hope. Then the varnish wears out and the wicked curved claws dig in, tearing sensitive flesh, drawing more ash-tears that crumble and die away as soon as they are shed.
Together we rise, consistently, resiliently, and beyond all reasonable capacity.
Together we rise to the truth above the lies, past the cretins who would criticize.
They rage and break against us.
We rise to the occasion.
