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I, Cassandra

Oh, how this rage burns unfettered through my impotent veins. This world is the object of it's own doom, and I am little more than a dissenting voice attempting to hammer down the walls of ignorance through sheer will alone. With every passing second, my anger steps closer to a physical manifestation, an explosion of utter contempt and hatred.

I want to scream. Not just at the darkness, as I have with this diary, but instead into people's very faces. I want to blast my denouncement at them with such force that their hearts quiver. This may not be enough to sate my growing need for violence. Every day people make decisions that change lives, and they are not held acountable for this. If people could just understand the impact their every action has on those around them, I could settle for such sensibility, could be encouraged by people finally being willing to take responsibility for their actions. Unfortunately, such comprehension continues to surpass the overwhelming majority of people. Especially those most responsible for the greatest damage.

If people will not listen, if they are incapable of understanding reason, what avenue is left to my frustration but to appeal to people on a level they do understand? And what do such plebeian buffoons understand better than violence? Oh, how I yearn to unleash my wrath on these fools for their deliberate ignorance. I can feel that this is what my body wants. To punish someone for a life lived in folly and free from accountability. I want to hurt someone. People's lives are altered, ruined or lost every day because of decisions that are not questioned, and somebody, surely, must pay.

I want to become an avatar of pure judgement. To strike down on the core of apathy and ignorance, to replace it with a spark of something not unlike hope. An era of understanding, reason and intelligence. But even through the red mist of my seething rage, I know that my thoughts are false. Such destruction will only beget yet more violence, more suffering, and more refusal to acknowledge that suffering.

There is nothing I can do, no act of fury or madness, no speech I can deliver that will turn the hearts of people content in their bubble of fatuous stupidity. For all my hatred of this world, I alone am too little to change it. And so I am left with impotence. A building fury in my blood that grows in temper with every passing day, perhaps never to be unleashed.

But I do not yield, though I know my efforts are in vain. I will go on denouncing this world, whether such utterings make a difference or not, I have to at least publish my unease with this life. At least my message is out there. This diary alone gives me respite, takes the edge off the insufferable malice wrapping itself like suffocation over my heart. It is better, they say, to light one small candle than to rage against the dark.

Light a candle for me.



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Copyright Insane Bartender 2004-11-12 9:34 a.m.

e-mail me: Insane Bartender