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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required he was looking for a new enemy for it was the man he hated before which defined his very being & in that respect, there was no other who could possibly take his place--- he searched far and wide, after the last fight had come to a close---two young men with all the anger in the world comparing themselves to two old men who in giving up on everything had only each other to hate. with clenched fists he walked in his black wool trench coat during the frigid december early afternoons, keeping his eyes peeled for a target in which he might shed some of the pent up aggression, however, to no avail, his search ended as quickly as it began & home he went, frustrated & without the meaning that an exchange of mutual despise could bring (as it had so many times before). twiddling his thumbs inside his cavern of confusion, he wondered just what he would do if he never did find another adversary? inevitably, after drinking himself into a stupor, he meandered to the bathroom to relieve himself, taking a moment to stare into the mirrored reflection before exiting the room. the young man gaining wrinkles by the day saw the old man happy still in his ability to nitpick at such lesser priorities in life, especially when his friends were dropping like flies, their bodies filled with all those wonderful cancers & diseases that come to you once you’ve carved your little niche out in the world. he wasn’t envious, but he was jealous of the meaning that came with disease---he wondered if he had developed the problems that came with the lives of others he’d known, if he would treat himself as the sickness then---for, he would disappear into the vast mass of individuals whose lives had been cut short, whose personalities were now time clocks all set to a differently specified ending--- one which was already know, and therefore, much less interesting. on the contrary, if he was to make the very absence of sickness his enemy, then he felt he’d catch himself in a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you- don’t sort of context, where meaning might arise in whatever conclusion did come from that mindset--- still, tracing the wrinkles in his face with his index, he imagined that not even he could take such a cliché seriously enough to act on it.
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