Sometimes, I want to punish you. I know where it comes from. This bread, this sacrament. What it is to be broken and break another for a representation of ones' movement past the other. That is all it is when I stand back and stare at it a long time.
All it is is my hate that rests in the palms of my hands. The hate I had for years drawn up and thrown away or put on myself, I can't punish you with it. It would only be, to me one day, to have punished you with the same animus you had me. The inequity. And where? Where would I be?
It's nearly a year. I've come down toward many terrible feelings only to find myself here. Only here where I still struggle to learn and reach over the hill. How do you outlive such things and still remain? I want to know. Where? What is closure for this thing?
( painting by Edvard Munch )