truth.

I lay their on my cot, the world, and the people in it, unwelcomed. absorbed into the pages of idealism and desired history that should have been present in time. now. here. always. I'm struck in the head-in the moment-the future already known. a tennis ball had planted itself to the left side of my head. I didn't know how to respond except to overdramatize the pain. they laughed. I laughed. uneasy and hurt in my pride. I got up after a few minutes of moaning and groaning, picked up the ball and made aware its existence that ceased in my grasp.
"give me the ball, delgado."
"fuck you."
the struggle that ensued was not neccessary, but only existed to meet one's own delusion of superiority-and my submission.
"give it back"
it pings off my chest.
I walk toward the laughs. the pride that fuels my torment;the fury.
the anger flushes through my extremities and channels itself into a fist.
firmly on his face.
silence.
silence.
the tears well up in his eyes, more is hurt than his body.
pride. security. establishment.
anarchy in one's mind has reared its intent.
I am not to be taken lightly.

I am not afraid of anyone, but myself.