We, the Bully
Not one will remember him. Not a single person will read, write or think of his life, his feats, his dream or his fight. His great struggle, his pull war within his soul or the shallow pit where he often sits and prays for what is right: we, his enemy.
We clubbed him, we dubbed him small, fake and inferior. We reigned above and beyond him, throwing stones, tossing pain while fleeing our own hell rain. Carrying forever welts, he often thought yet never felt the end was near. He neither knew nor cared. He neither fled nor feared.
Yet his frame never shook and his heart never took to flight. Not a second did he spend inside, hidden away in fright. Always content. Always knowing it was coming. He saw the pain before it came, this the only human not a bully. He is a pattern instilled in myth. Never the alive, not truth, yet still much less a lie. He is here and he isn’t.
He is the bullys friend and the fighters end and he is each of you and each bully is in you. The victim, the instigator, it’s all the same embittered, pitiful, and painful game. Take one look and hear with a different ear, open the book, the book of life and dive, divide and confide in yourself, the truth: anger comes where it feeds, and fears take two to make one bleed.