When night turns to dark, thoughts turn to darkness...
... and from darkness, unto death.
Murder is acceptable. That's what society today tells us - murder is perfectly acceptable. Not in so obvious terms, of course. Hot-blooded, books say, happens all the time. Crimes of passion. Revenge. Cold-blooded, the newspapers say, is fine, everyday stuff. Bombs. War. Withholding food from famine-stricken nations. TV and film, of course, are the biggest culprits. Anybody with enough testosterone pumping through their veins (and that's not just guys) who can watch war scenes and go "YES!!!" knows this deep down within. And who watches Gladiator and not pumps their fist in victory at (especially) the final, vengeance kill?
There are days where I contemplate it. I imagine the scenario - perhaps one day it's the handbag snatcher, who knocks over an old lady whilst taking her bag, and I manage to push him off his bike. And proceed to smash his face in with his helmet. Perhaps another day it's an intruder in the house, who dares threaten my family, and I manage to grab a sharp object. A parang, preferably. And proceed to chop his fingers off. No guns for me, no sir. Iffy, sissy stuff. My gun scenario usually has me disarming the perpetrator (through a lot of sheer luck) and my torturing him for using the gun. Kneecaps, elbows, shoulders, the usual. Using the gun of course, high irony factor.
Every so often I entertain these thoughts as hot-blooded adrenaline-fueled fantasies. But when the blood rages hotter and adrenaline pumps harder, I pray for such situations. I wish to batter, maim, destroy. Reduce what was once a man into something no longer. And deliver it for sacrifice.
Because what I truly want to deliver for sacrifice is actually my own battered, maimed, destroyed body. As a message, if you will. "One man's meat is another man's poison," perhaps. Or, "Listening is love". Maybe, "Passion, drained."
But I cannot. I cannot slice my wrists and eventually crumple into an ever-expanding pool of my own blood. I cannot zoom up to 180 and smack into an oncoming lorry (anyway what if I live after? Now THAT would truly suck). I cannot dive off the roof of a high-rise. I have too much to live for, too much I want to do, too much I want to get done. Dreams to enable, dreams to build. A meaningful life.
And to throw that all away just to communicate that one (or three) message to someone? Sheesh. Talk about overkill.
Worse, the person might not even get it.
But oooohhhh isn't there such a dramatic thrill to that? Cutting your own wrists and bleeding to death in front of someone? Hmmm maybe I should write a play on that. Crikey, I like it more the more I think about it. For The Platform next year, perhaps.
Writing's so good for the soul. Assuage, that's what it does (and what a word). Thanks, blog.
Murder is acceptable. That's what society today tells us - murder is perfectly acceptable. Not in so obvious terms, of course. Hot-blooded, books say, happens all the time. Crimes of passion. Revenge. Cold-blooded, the newspapers say, is fine, everyday stuff. Bombs. War. Withholding food from famine-stricken nations. TV and film, of course, are the biggest culprits. Anybody with enough testosterone pumping through their veins (and that's not just guys) who can watch war scenes and go "YES!!!" knows this deep down within. And who watches Gladiator and not pumps their fist in victory at (especially) the final, vengeance kill?
There are days where I contemplate it. I imagine the scenario - perhaps one day it's the handbag snatcher, who knocks over an old lady whilst taking her bag, and I manage to push him off his bike. And proceed to smash his face in with his helmet. Perhaps another day it's an intruder in the house, who dares threaten my family, and I manage to grab a sharp object. A parang, preferably. And proceed to chop his fingers off. No guns for me, no sir. Iffy, sissy stuff. My gun scenario usually has me disarming the perpetrator (through a lot of sheer luck) and my torturing him for using the gun. Kneecaps, elbows, shoulders, the usual. Using the gun of course, high irony factor.
Every so often I entertain these thoughts as hot-blooded adrenaline-fueled fantasies. But when the blood rages hotter and adrenaline pumps harder, I pray for such situations. I wish to batter, maim, destroy. Reduce what was once a man into something no longer. And deliver it for sacrifice.
Because what I truly want to deliver for sacrifice is actually my own battered, maimed, destroyed body. As a message, if you will. "One man's meat is another man's poison," perhaps. Or, "Listening is love". Maybe, "Passion, drained."
But I cannot. I cannot slice my wrists and eventually crumple into an ever-expanding pool of my own blood. I cannot zoom up to 180 and smack into an oncoming lorry (anyway what if I live after? Now THAT would truly suck). I cannot dive off the roof of a high-rise. I have too much to live for, too much I want to do, too much I want to get done. Dreams to enable, dreams to build. A meaningful life.
And to throw that all away just to communicate that one (or three) message to someone? Sheesh. Talk about overkill.
Worse, the person might not even get it.
But oooohhhh isn't there such a dramatic thrill to that? Cutting your own wrists and bleeding to death in front of someone? Hmmm maybe I should write a play on that. Crikey, I like it more the more I think about it. For The Platform next year, perhaps.
Writing's so good for the soul. Assuage, that's what it does (and what a word). Thanks, blog.
posted by Jo at 1:23 am
1 Comments:
Write it. Whatever you are feeling, thinking, wishing.. write it. Be it a play, a poem a book.
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