His hands grip the arms of the chair like an incessant electrocution, his body rigid except for his feet, which alternately pump to a beat that only he hears. His eyes bore through me, driven by an unflinching power that I don't feel anyone else understands. They see it, because I sense their fear under his gaze, but they do not understand it, and this is the reason for their fear. I try to hold his gaze but I can't. I'm not strong enough to hold it, and I feel pretty strong.
My words seem fruitless and my thoughts powerless. There is nothing I can do but be present, being present feeling the helplessness that he must feel in abundance, locked in an ironic battle with the strength he maintains.
Surrounded by lost souls he wanders the halls, waiting for orders; "take this"; the 'cure'; the poison that will cure your poison; the business that poisons the souls of poisoned souls cares not for lost children. They are not compatible with the Zeitgeist, that which denies its' children, denies them a family and dooms them to the orphanage of eternity. Shuffled into obscurity, marked with the repellent status of the indifferent, the lost children of today take their poison or it is thrust into them, helpless, careless, hopeless they accept their fate and hold back their hate for another day. The lost souls.
The Twenty Eighth Blog Of Trig.
You cannot assume the responsibility of that which you don't, and can't understand...only champion reason for those who lack the knowledge of their own. X
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