I Have Better Things In Me Than Hatred — Morning Papers XVI

When Man Calls Himself Petty, What Can Someone Else Hope For? —What Is Hate But A Metric Of Time When It Isn’t Questioned.

THE LAST PAPER:

Can you remember the days, O; caught so young, and often enough, they were so young to you! Tumbling in and out of the paddock, up and over hill, down waterfalls over and clades.

Seemingly this trick of emblazoned skies, and endless rocky edifices was too vast, even too much for the tricking vintage of time. But that is when the crux falls so, and thus what ensues is a-quaking and a-shaking of fermenting bowls, chugging you over by the led young fingers cross on over with, cross and then? What are they hoping for?

Time leaves you startled, truth to the youthful days, squabbling for a new mensing after the seemingly given gift falls sundered.

So desperate in despair, they seek out the young love affair, the young imbibement of toxins, often broached by the figures sembling around then; the same figures may also impress the military launch upon them, those luxurious uniforms for a seemingly upstanding and righteous meaning. To die, yes, this may be the first semblance of death trusted upon them, as a soldier as their state of fairings, which is to die for a force never met.

This uniform, this brethren by outfit, bringing this theretofore evasion of meaning, since the departure of ways from youthful gaiety. Can’t you see the potential, can’t you see the danger for sharp worth, can’t you see the waste also? Is this complexion ever that simple, for some, they’ll be fit soldiers, fitted perfectly only to that, as long they’re not aborted from the tight regiment when middle-aged approaches them like a sleuthing panther, biding its time on a larger, worrisome prey. If they bond forth and pull to their breast the stark realization of hurtling themselves too recent, they’ll end with a depression to crush their head or sternum.

Where would the already, much battled heart be good for then? It takes the abortion done by the system of mensing and meaning for them to be once again shocked out of that. Then they realize, they’re out on their own, without pay or profits for pensions. Lucky, some may be true, depending on the sharpening care of the State, and Army thereby to dispense such methodologies, as I snake my tongue in my mouth, in jest with that.

If the method is to feed apt soldiers at rigorous boyhoods, then divorced from youthful Innocences to have them grow by spine and choke, into battled and depressed men of middling ages, well, they have succeeded in the attentions just.

Afterwards, the observer is just there, ‘tis morning now, and what are the first feelings that arise, after watching the departing and grizzled sight of army men being divorced from the only company that they have ever known? Stumping off into the dark, away from the main presentation of gregarious arms.

Out in the streets, by middling corners, and by drunken prospects, they cluster there, in the alleyways and in the doorways, elsewhere and erstwhile in their hearts.

The men they lauded, decry them now — the loud and the petty always get the first dips at the expressible microphones — squabbling and scrabbling like the Fool.

Whilst erstwhile men watch on, nowadays, that may include a woman by conscription or by choice too. But the life thereafter may remain regardless of seemingly apt divisions.

Hate, I hear, from the pacifists, the leaching ones for a good robbing story.

Hate, I hear from the ones who cannot grasp the humane complexity, and the fear within hearts uncontested.

I hate — I hate — I hate; I hear it all from the dribbles of those who haven’t dared to feel, or have dared too much, being bitterly burnt in the cross heirs of such menaces of love — our uncertainty and our daring hope, for some, at least.

I hate — I hate — I hate; to be that withering therefore of statements and conclusions.

I have better things in me than to join the rafters in that widening hate.

Has naught been learned from before? All the precious and previous instances of when Hate became key — but what is Hate and to whom, directed at the WHO?

The daring of our trepidations never courted or courted rarely whilst so young, never prepare us for the overt complexities of life. Even the simplest means, and ways of life, all have a skeleton, substance, and organs under that flat skin.

I cannot speak more of hate if it isn’t questioned within you all first. A self-loathing may have a rippling effect utterly unbeknownst to you now and then.

Ah, the fine metrics of our time.

A ruling by time — Hate; Hate is the inclusion of applying time when it isn’t questioned —when the forthcoming catastrophe leaves the living till then catatonic; Hate is a Metric of About-Time when it isn’t Questioned.

Question belies now is: What it is and How it is for you, and for them, and finally for me.

Ta-ta Now, take brilliance close to heart now.

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