I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
As I sit here, pen in hand, my thoughts drift to the electric pulse of the club, a place where the world blurs into a haze of lights and rhythm. It’s a space where I find myself searching, chasing something fleeting—a spark, a connection, a moment of lust that feels like it could ignite my very soul. I confess, my heart is restless, caught in a dance between longing and surrender. My mind lingers on the club, where shadows and desires intertwine. I’m drawn to the allure of someone who captivates me, someone whose presence sets my spirit ablaze.
I look to her, to that fleeting dream of passion, hoping to hold onto something real before time erodes me. I fear that without her—without that fire—my soul might crumble, turning to dust in the quiet of unfulfilled yearning. In her hands, I imagine a world where desire breathes life into me. She is the one I dream of, the one who could mould my fleeting hopes into something eternal. Yet, there’s a weight to this longing, a fear that my spirit might harden, turning to crust under the pressure of wanting what may never be mine. This is my confession, my truth laid bare. The club is more than a place—it’s a mirror of my heart’s quiet ache, a reminder of the fire I seek and the fragility of my own spirit. I write this to you because you, more than anyone, might understand this restless search for something that feels like forever.
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
I was bored one day and i was amazed by @jid feature on a track called fried rice by @bas and I thought let me write something over @jid flow just for fun. #LATA
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
I blaze through the streets, my heart pounding, seeking those I once called my best friends—friends who betrayed me, their masks peeling away to reveal fragments of lust, loafing, guilt, and shame. Their deception trapped me in a “happy illusion,” but now, with wrath born from the abyss of my heart, I confront the wreckage of trust and the question of redemption. This raw, visceral poem is my story, urging me to explore philosophically what betrayal has done to my sense of self, how wrath has shaped my response, and whether I can find redemption without losing my soul. Drawing from existentialism, Stoicism, and ethical thought, I reflect on my journey through betrayal and rage, seeking answers within the ashes.
Betrayal and the Unmasking of My Illusions
When I saw their masks peel away, exposing their lustful ease, the sting of betrayal cut deep. These weren’t just friends—they were vices I embraced, parts of myself I refused to see. In Sartre’s terms, I was living in mauvaise foi (bad faith), hiding from the truth to cling to a comforting lie. Their betrayal forced me to confront this illusion, shattering the cage I built around myself. Now, I stand in the glare of existential angst, free yet burdened to redefine who I am without those false friends.
This unmasking wounds me but also offers a gift. As Nietzsche might urge, I’m peeling away false identities to approach my authentic self, untainted by deception. But the cost is heavy: years wasted, blinded by their intentions. I face a choice—cling to the ruins of my old self or forge a new path, knowing betrayal has revealed not just their falsehoods but my own complicity in them.
Wrath as My Response
From the “wrathful abyss” of my heart, rage erupts. I don’t just feel anger—I act on it, methodically taking out Steel (Loafing), Raheem (Guilt), and Q (Shame) with bullets to the heart, head, and chest. This isn’t blind fury but a deliberate purge, a claim to agency. Existentially, I’m asserting my freedom, refusing to remain a victim. Yet, Seneca’s Stoic warning echoes: wrath is a “temporary madness” that clouds reason. By “disconnecting my morals from my heart,” I risk becoming Nietzsche’s “pale criminal,” powerful in action but hollowed out by moral loss.
My wrath is a double-edged sword. It liberates me from the grip of vice, but it leaves me “lost in [a] charred room.” I’ve destroyed the external symbols of my flaws, but have I freed myself, or have I traded one cage for another? The bravery I feel is real, but it teeters on the edge of self-destruction, forcing me to question whether this path leads to empowerment or ruin.
Redemption or Self-Destruction?
Alone in my charred room, I contemplate purging wrath itself by “separating my body from my soul,” baptizing myself with “a bullet to the head, without holding back.” This chilling thought feels like both despair and a twisted hope for redemption. In Camus’ absurd, I’m caught between seeking meaning and facing its absence. My desire to purge wrath suggests a longing to transcend my corrupted state, but the method—self-annihilation—makes me pause. Stoicism, through Marcus Aurelius, urges me to master my passions, not destroy myself: “You have power over your mind—not outside events.” Yet, the idea of “baptizing my soul” hints at Kierkegaard’s leap of faith, a surrender to something beyond reason.
The ambiguity—whether I follow through or merely contemplate this act—leaves me wondering if redemption lies in self-awareness rather than a final bullet. Have I the courage to reintegrate my fragmented soul, or will I remain lost in this charred aftermath?
Ethical Reflections on My Fragmented Soul
Killing my personified vices—loafing, guilt, shame—feels like purging my flaws, but it’s also a form of scapegoating, projecting my struggles onto others. Ethically, I wrestle with a utilitarian question: does my liberation justify the violence, the disconnection of my morals? Plato’s tripartite soul comes to mind—reason, spirit, and appetite must harmonize for virtue. My wrathful actions let spirit rule, sidelining reason and balance. Redemption, then, might mean reintegrating these parts through introspection, not more destruction. But can I rebuild what I’ve burned?
Conclusion
This poem—“Unveiled Betrayal: My Wrathful Redemption”—is my confrontation with the human condition: the pain of betrayal, the fire of wrath, and the faint hope of redemption. Philosophically, it challenges me to consider how I respond to deception, both from others and within myself. Existentialism offers me freedom to redefine myself, but at the risk of moral erosion. Stoicism warns against wrath’s tyranny, urging inner mastery. The question lingers: can I escape the abyss of betrayal without losing myself, or is redemption always a baptism by fire? As I stand in my charred room, I’m left to decide whether to rebuild or let the ashes define me.
LifeandTimelessart 