this conflict of mine

What a hateful man. What a shameful sight. That piteous flop of a man. No doubt there are those who look up to him. A hero of the dregs of society. A star amongst the scum of the earth.

If I could only begin to speak of his crimes. If I could only paint a picture of his dark soul. But I could not, for there is no place to start. A frightful companion he is. He is the string that must be loosed. The needle you'd leave in the haystack. There is no word called responsibility in his world. There is no concept of duty born alongside man. Not in the existence that surrounds him.

He took a job, and said he would do it. One involving the administering of souls. A higher job, ethereal and divine. A job so joyous, yet so abstract from human standards. If one could fully understand it, one would never be discontent. Yet the days came, and the days passed, and the job was left untouched. The souls were left to their abandonment. Alone they were, left neglected.

He claimed a disability and I accepted. No man is fit for everything. And there is nothing fit for every man. And how tedious this job can become, one's heart is not strong enough. It may be joyous, but there are conditions of the heart that must be set fully in place before one can derive the job's full benefits.

Yet he disappeared. Just as quickly as he spoke. There was no consideration for what would happen next. No thought dedicated to what might ensue. The baton was dropped. Merely drop. Nothing more. Nothing less. It took seconds. But we saw it as minutes. Hours. Years. There was some component of shock. More of disbelief. It was a long pause. What happens now?

Does a statement alone, allow us to ride free? Does a feeling alone, discharge us from the duties we long to let go? How convenient that would be. At a word, I can put to rest that which must be done. But we are bound, by the sacred laws that constitutes us, to complete the job, or to find someone to continue the race. Not merely someone, but someone specific.

"If I drop it, someone will pick it up." Who? When? Shall we wait an eternity for this mysterious benefactor? Surely, you enjoy the element of suspense. Surely, you are a great practician of patience. A common theatre scene, that greatly satisfies once concluded. But what of now? What of the people involved? Shall we leave them be? Like sheep left to wander? Perhaps you would have them line of beside you, watching, just watching. For this intensity that would take your place to save them. Why, I have a sudden foreboding of someone's Second Coming. Perhaps it is to your taste, that we practice what we preach.

And when I tried to assist you, you took it for granted that I would take your burdens away in a flash. I was merely there to help you find a solution. You've got a lot of things wrong over there. However did you construe such a outcome? That the moment a toy no longer brings you pleasure, I would be there to carry away?

And yet your sick mind allowed nothing in. No words of comfort, no words of reason. The world had become a dark unfriendly place for you. It was a chore to open your eyes. So you kept them closed, and walked around your imaginations. You rejected kind words. You defiled kind intentions.

If you understood the magnitude of the job, then surely you would also understand the magnitude of the forces that drive it. Would not the right attitude be one of gratitude? Your pains and sacrifices are not the only ones man have to suffer. We too, the engine that drives our establishment, have our pains and sacrifices. We try our best to create a simpler form of service for you. And when you choose to stop, we try to help you. We are all in this together.

And yet you spurned the advances made to bring you peace. Advances built on the sweat and tears of others. You treated therapy as skirmishes. And salvation as destruction. Your absent sense of duty has brought dereliction upon yourself. And now you call the attempts to rebuild you, an annoyance?

The things that must be done, have to be done. How basic is that which forms the foundation of this world. We have duties to perform. And we have to perform them. If we cannot, or choose not to, we find others to fill our place. So that a building is not given only half its pillars. So that our home, is not left without its parents. We build, until our ends, then others take our places. The hammer does not stop pounding. Only the hands that hold it change. The baton cannot be dropped, even if it is heavy. The one who holds it, must bring it to the finish, or pass it on.

The spite that is on my tongue, is bitter as bile. The words you spoke to me, can never be taken away. Your presence amongst us, belittles the stool that holds my weight. The white that covers you, is stained with filth in my eyes.Your contempt for the efforts of others, brings you to shame. Your bitterness, turns you into a sour sight amongst those who care for you. Your rejection of that which is good, makes you the object of rejection.

This wretched pain that stirs within my chest. I am torn to bits by the forces that construct me. The iron hand of duty that is the Notsnhoj, and the hand of destruction that also speak of love that is God. Johnston was the balance between these entities, and the container of the raging conflicts that they bring. Release me! How it hurts! How it confuses!

I am sad. So sad, the burdens on my back, bind me to the ground. I could not explain it, but my arms feel weak, and my knees give way. If I could undo my crimes. If I could undo what I have put him into. I would. How I wish I never let him suffer the responsibilities of leadership. How he grieves. His pains, are my pains. His hate, is my tears.

Yet I am angry. So angry, I could tear this man to shreds. How I wish to destroy him, for the things he left to destruction. How I could shame him, if I would. These distasteful ambitions of mine.

God, help him recover from his wounds. God, help me. Oh damn my sinful estate.

Notsnhoj