Page of the Sage: Fury
I might have named this entry “Rage” to sate my love of rhyme. But I feared the rhyme would sound sillier than I feel like being.
If I could have all people know one thing about me, it would be this: I just want to tell stories. From my boyhood spent in Catholic schools to my present slumming it across Los Angeles, all I’ve ever wanted is to create wonder in others with wordplay and flights of fancy.
But my vision is tainted, for I cannot chase it without a hit of guilt. Every time I write a new verse, a new chapter, or a new tweet, a part of me wonders if this is really a good time.
The state I live in is on fire. The states I came from face record-setting storms. Most of our massive nation is wracked by plague and poverty. And in the middle of it all, age-old forces remain dedicated to or dismissive of this systemic culling of the working class.
I just want to tell stories, but every damn story is this: the powerful oppressing the weak and teaching the weak to kill the weaker. The meek have inherited exactly jack shit. Jesus lost, or Jesus lied.
Every word I write that isn’t this story feels like a slap in the face to the fallen. I feel constrained by the grip of the ghosts who should still be, but aren’t. I feel…
