I had a confused, bewildered - yet sickening - feeling as I pulled into the driveway to find my lawn covered in trashy looking papers. Mystified, I stumbled out of the car and came to find it was my trashy papers spread out all over creation, having been dug out of my garbage can. It's a unique feeling to have one's privacy so publicly raped, I doubt if any of the neighbors had ever had this happen to them. But before I even saw the note left behind for my infringed eyes, I knew the stalking beast had caught up to me.
"I need to understand you. I need to FIX you!" The precise penmanship made it all the more despicable.
Disgusted, I crumpled the note and burned it along with the rest of my violated votives. If only I could rid myself of my stalker so easily! What kind of person does a thing such as this, hoping to suffocate me in its randomness. Who really thinks this is something done for the best when done only in secrecy? Worst of all, the perpetrator admitted no sense of sin.
There had been a time when I shared a cell with the stalker. My home was loveless and unbearable and in my anger I turned to a false answer and like all false answers it imprisoned me. But while I hated my prison, the stalker-to-be was openly defiant in doom, declaring "I never want love again!" Thus by shared fate paradise was deemed found. Yet as my hands gripped in frustration the cold iron bars a coldness seeped into my heart and I wished a bitter fate for all when I found out love had meanwhile knocked on my door in my absent home.
To allay my fear I planted flowers to see if they would grow given my touch. When they bloomed magnificently I hoped to make a dream of them, setting me free from my prison. The next the day stalker came rushing towards me congratulating me on the beauty of the flowers - and greedily clutching the severed stems. "I think these are wonderful!" It was a phrase I'd learn to mercilessly mock. Merrily, the stalker proceeded to compliment me, thinking I'd be grateful for the flattery, seeing none of my outrage nor perhaps even having the capacity to understand it.
I had to find a place where I could grow my flowers safely but in the stalker's eyes I was the Solution To All Problems - avoiding life the stalker's only goal. And in the hell of a loveless prison, the addict's needle is a willing accomplice. Grabbing, wailing, clawing, damning, lashing, digging, deluding, scratching, blinding, ravaging - the stalker's drugs knew no human boundaries, living only in borrowed sanity, with desperate animal eyes.
Screeches to the high heavens filled the cage as I struggled to leave. "I'm melting! I'm melting!" Grappling hooks of guilt were launched to lug me back. Hands with the frantic strength of a dying soul clasped my ankles in riotous refusal. What a ridiculous sight it must have been. Helpless was the heathen but to drag me back having already renounced love. In the upside down world, addiction is a friend and freedom the enemy. But I pulled free.
The logic of Alice has my stalker, chaining me to "heal me", invading me to "free me", drowning me to "save me", all done in total self-absolution, serving the "greater good". Moot was any questioning and I found no quarter for reason. If one deems oneself to be "helping", sins wash away with a magic wand. And now as I sit staring into the burning rubbish of my pawed papers, fire rages inside me as well as this beast plays God with my life and I can feel only hate.
My home is still empty but home I now be. And yet I feel in prison all over again by the stalking madness. This creature of the dark is clever in its untouchability. Unfed in its own life, the hungry wolf relentlessly seeks its prey, needing human flesh to devour its rage. Its eyes have gone blind, driven solely by the smell of blood's weakness. In this way the beast searches for survival.
But I'll be damned if I know how one can live with a monster like that.
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How does one hide from the sky? From the sky comes terror and from terror comes oppression and from oppression comes rage. The rage a mother feels in helpless horror looking upon her two dead children butchered before her eyes. A day of sunshine dropped into darkness as the light left the earth. The nameless, faceless killer drone from the heavens delivered its inhumanity with remorseless anonymity, leaving the wailing woman raped in frustration.
"Who can live with monsters like this?"
Another asked Clinton how she would define terrorism.
"Is it the killing of people in drone attacks?" she asked. That woman then asked if Clinton considers drone attacks and bombings like the one that killed more than 100 civilians in the city of Peshawar earlier this week to both be acts of terrorism.
"No, I do not," Clinton replied.
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