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Published:August 3rd, 2009 15:01 EST
The Futility Of Revenge

The Futility Of Revenge

By Rouben Alikian

Revenge is the bloody eyed monster that roams the outlands of human minds. It prowls the night of dark desires, seeking anything to latch onto with its claws through the blindness of its eyes. We fall in love with the idea of dispensing justice at will for any wrongdoing and that very door of emotional conduit is what shines a light to the lonely monster as it sees a way out of the madness gripping it in solitude. That momentary thought of justice by blood and gore is the doorway of all emotions flooding into the hungry maw of the beast that pokes in ghastly snout through the crack of reason and unleashes hell.

 

We fall into the trap, cocoon, embalm the idea of it for some time before giving it a name so condoned by humanity. We call that monster revenge sent from the infernal kingdom to ease the gnawing vulture of our minds. For few things are as horrific as a wronged man who has little or nothing left to lose. And what if we turn that anger from a lone, estranged person committing one crime for his own sake to the mass of furious hearts? What happens then? Ages of blood, centuries of war. For what? The satisfaction of feeling the blood of your last remaining enemy dripping from your fingertips? And what if you no longer recall the reason for all this bloodshed, forget the link between your wronging and that of those before you? Then, what are you fighting for? What for is all this senseless suffering? Does revenge even have a meaning anymore when few can recall its purpose?

 

Yes, revenge must have a purpose, but in the carnage of fanaticism and zealous warmongering tied to an egoistic lust for bloodshed in search of a fixated goal, the monster sits atop a throne, reveling in your misery. And what happens when the last sword is sheathed and the last stroke of a shovel is landed on your enemy`s grave? What happens to you then? Are you finished? Is that the end? Your enemy may be gone and your wrongs avenged, but who stays to cry? That nameless corpse rotting in the grave, the one who you so firmly believed had to die is now dead, gone and at peace. And who is left to suffer the guilt, the sense of emptiness and loss of meaning?

 

You are left, and for this crime you must pay, not with time, not with money, not with blood but your own sanity as you begin to realize that the enemy you dispatched is the true victor and you are left to rot in this emotional hell of living with your crime. When you dug that grave, the one for your enemy, you dug two, as the other, the one scraped in an ethereal realm of madness, is your own, for your mind, your sanity. For Hell is here, now and everywhere, the only thing that matters is realizing that there is no one out there more brutal than yourself.