Hate Keeps You Warm
I wonder if in the end,
Ahab really wanted to kill that whale?
I mean yeah,
He seemed pretty pissed,
About the whole,
“It ate my leg!” thing,
But what of it?
The hunt for that whale,
Filled him with a passion,
Unknown to most people.
Make no mistake,
Passion is not the same,
As happiness.
Happiness is temporary,
Fleeting,
Like a cool breeze on a hot day,
Or a romance that ends too quickly,
Or a piece of chocolate that has already melted on your tongue.
It feels good,
But means nothing,
A tiny island of joy,
In the ocean of life.
What Ahab felt,
Was something more,
It was Hate.
Not the meaningless hate,
That gets passed around,
Like a microphone at a pity party.
I hate my job,
I hate homework,
I hate broccoli.
Ahab’s hate,
Was the mother’s hate for the one who murdered her child,
The husband’s hate for the one who stole his wife,
The Old Testament God’s hate for those he drowned in the flood.
All-consuming,
Pure,
Uncomplicated,
Direct.
Hate,
That can keep you warm at night,
When your friends have left you.
You never doubt what you’re doing,
Never question if you’ve made the wrong choice,
Never fret over the path you’ve taken in life.
The Hate has chosen for you.
The Hate,
Like a God who lives in your heart,
Constantly guides you,
Never lets up,
Never shows mercy,
To you or those around you.
In turn,
You feel like a God,
A cold,
Powerful God,
On a never-ending holy mission,
To slay the dragon,
Relishing in every pain-filled scream,
Delighting in every encounter with your enemy,
Dreaming of your coming triumph.
Goals,
Are never quite as satisfying,
As the dreams that birth them.
If Ahab had killed that whale,
He would not have felt happiness,
Or joy,
Or relief.
He would’ve felt empty,
As the hate and bile,
Slid from his body,
Leaving only a cold,
Hollow shell of a man.
He’d have spent the entire voyage home,
Sitting in his cabin,
Clothes stained with whale blood,
Lost,
And directionless,
For the first time,
In Heaven knew how long.
Rotting away,
In a wooden prison,
The carrion birds of
Fear,
Anxiety,
And doubt,
Picking at his mind.
Until finally,
He’d climb on deck,
And fling himself,
Into the cold waters,
Where the predators of the sea,
Can eat whatever Moby Dick forgot to finish.
Ahab should be very happy,
That the whale killed him,
And not the other way around.
