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My life. Metaphorically speaking.
Entry for September 16, 2007
've thought a long time about what exactly I want to say about this. I went to bed and laid awake for many hours. I thought of them. I thought of Atia of the Juliai, and of the uncharacteristically victorious Nervii. At last I could not lay anymore. My computer was still on. Waiting for these words. At long last I will publish them, in a final statement of my year. Sometimes these issues and the characters with them filter to the surface of my conscious. I fight it off. I bite it down. Anger resurfaces with the mention of these characters. I take a lot of shit from a lot of people. I was done with this for a long time, but sometimes history likes to repeat itself. Make reappearances. Anger swells in my gut at the mention of these people. Anger is not an emotion I deal with a lot. Anger is a strong, powerful emotion, and rarely do I feel something like real, true rage so strong. When I do, it is anger. It can only be characterized in that way.
Person 1. We'll call you Pompei. Person 2. We'll call you Brutus. Person 3. We'll call you Atia. Person 4. We'll call you Titus Pullo. Person 5. We'll call you Octavia. Person 6. We'll call you Posca. Pompei. You brought Atia into our lives. You just wanted your cot warm, and in exchange you would inadvertently sell me. Judas would think you his godfather. For thirty pieces of silver, you sought to buy yourself a whore and you were able to buy nothing. Until later had you no idea how grave that mistake was. Brutus. E tu, Brutus? E tu?! You facilitated lies and intrigue with Atia all because you thrive on people's trust, while you betrayed my own. Judas would think you his mentor, also. I trusted you. With my tears, with my desires. But you wanted your silver, also, didn't you? Atia. One by one you disassembled my relationships with one finger in each direction, gaging, asking for villas, smiling while you knew I took your dust. While I choked in the dust of your gilded chariot. Oh, yes, you're a patriot. You are a patriot, so take it, you despicable pawn, when your daughter takes Marc Antony to her bed and your eyes fill with tears. Oh, your ambitions! It's all politics. Until someone got hurt. It was politics when you hurt me. Now when you hurt, it is politics. I will stand as Servilia. Watch the ashes fall onto me. Atia, you disgust me. Your ladder only reached so far, you have found. You bought loyalty and have broken some relationships that will never return to the way they once were, nor do I dare to speak of it to those several people. You have bought so many things, I spit on it all. Give what is Atia's to Atia. What do you have now, Atia. What do you have, now? What is yours, you can have. But tell me what you have left to claim, you immature attention grubbing glutton. What have you left to claim? Was it worth it? Tell me. Titus Pullo. My brother, you also turned your back on me. You have returned. Slowly. We don't mention your turn. It was especially painful how you have aligned yourself. I still hurt over your choice. Octavia/n. Oh, your Golden Boy. You defend him to the end. Not your golden boy. Because your affected friend slowly loses touch, you ignore it and pet your golden boy as if he has done no wrong. He preened, blind to your many imperfections, because he prized your eccentricity. He repaid you in his own loyalty. Where was the loyalty owed to me? Oh, you have many secrets, Octavia, just to keep your golden boy. Posca. Your act both frightens me and disgusts me. Your sit upon your wall, a ladder on each side, rooting for both. Dropping down packets of poison. Shall I take your hemlock? Fuck your hemlock. I wonder what weighs on your conscious, for the payment you have received. You remain loyal to no one, just depends on whose company you are in. You proclaim your equal favor to all. Fuck your favor. How do you feel, currying to everyone for the sake of your god-be-damned peace? 2007-09-17 00:10:19 GMT
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