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What Hatred Can Do

Regret gripped my heart in a tight fist that would not be abated by reason. Pressed between the minuscule spaces in my heart, those which were not crushed entirely, was a deep void, unfathomably dark. Not deep enough to hide in, yet — not enough time had passed spent in such sorrow — but certainly raw enough to be a constant reminder. A pain so dull and aching that it was worse than bleeding, because at least then you're feeling something. This pain was not really pain, but a lack of purpose and a lack of hope for ever finding such a purpose that is meant to be found.

One can only be in this agony so long before all forgiveness is lost entirely for the one who created it. A sort of insanity replaced the yearning, the void, and raged within, as only madness could fill that void. Nothingness gave way to fire, and fire yielded to an instinct so deeply ingrained in insanity that it must be stamped out immediately or will forever corrupt. The seeds of destruction wrought havoc upon my young mind, bent on creating a much more eternal kind of torment, one of old evils.

The seed grew and wrapped greedily and hungrily around the confines of my heart, in a fist of its own, and so my heart became harder, colder, weaker. For the purpose of a heart, which I was ignorant of for a time, is to love and be loved. When that is removed what is left but a hole, one that expands at the edges of your being like an all-consuming flame. The fire, it burned, and grew to a madness, which lit up a vengeance eager to be emptied onto others. And so the next epoch of my self-destruction came, silent in the night as a thief.

It lasted many years and I fell deeper into depression. I was consumed — lit from within — by a desire for retaliation, which I assumed was my natural right. I must carry my burdensome charge, my hatred, onto another, so I might be relieved of my suffering. Yet something held me back from the wicked task before me, which I knew somewhere in my mind was wrong. The unnatural place I was stranded in did not allow visitors, but somehow along the way a light came.

This light was unlike any I'd seen before. It did not burn angrily with the intent to consume me, but it offered itself to me to be used in times of need. And so I grasped the light with both hands, leaned in, and emerged myself in a shower of something good. And for once I felt like there might be a purpose after all, even for my suffering. Because though the dark is deep and the shadows long, then how much more dazzling is the light and the hope strong.

And anyway, the light is never really gone.



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freepersonThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
May 15, 2013 at 6:39 pm:
I like the picture :)
 
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StarlitSunriseThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Feb. 16, 2013 at 12:11 pm:
  I like the image of regret as a fist; it’s a good way to portray the oppressive side of the emotion. Above that, the whole article is painfully honest and personal. There is something about it that reminds me of a really good diary entry.
 
RarelyJadedThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Feb. 16, 2013 at 1:23 pm :
Haha, thanks. It's probably because I wrote this about my stepdad who left recently, and I regret never getting a chance to say goodbye. My poem "to betray a child" is more direct about that, though... :)
 
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