Just Business

I am filled with a dark and abiding anger. While I realize that I am not a victim of any impropriety on the part of the inghang, it does not change the fact that I was consistently handed the short hand of the stick. As the wounds of collateral damage bleed no less than those of betrayal, neither does irrational anger burn any less fiercely than its justified counterparts. I quietly assure myself that this, as all things, will pass, but still I wonder.

I do not want this to degrade itself into an expression of perceived wrong (for there was none), and will do my best to keep it within the range of introspection. What I find remarkable is not the dark sentiment itself, but rather the sinister freedom that has risen from the ashes. The pain of injustice has stripped away the tenuous veneer of civility, and released what I try so arduously to hide. The cries of understanding and mercy have been replaced with a tit-for-tat gospel of mercenary opportunism. As they have treated me with indifference, so shall I become a vengeful operative of that indifference. If given the opportunity, I will use them until I am finished with them, and then I will leave my resignation on the nightstand, payment in full for services rendered. There will be no consideration, no loyalty, no humanity. Just business.

The Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree

William Blake