He was an angry, hate-filled man, who could at times be the complete opposite. Unfortunately, the angry side was the dominant one, and when he died—alone and still mad at the world—few wept.
And then there’s me—the guy who professes to be afraid of nothing, yet fears he is too much like the man who raised me–not my father, but whose name I carry.
I talk about God and love, peace and joy, and most of the time those things are reflected in the way I live my life. Sadly, there are times… they vanish.
The goings-on in this world we live in these days ignite a fierce anger in me, and I sometimes feel as though a bomb is ticking in my soul. I battle to remain at peace, but when I am wronged, the rage within boils and threatens to change me into the one thing I desire not to be; him. And, when I am him—or like him—I hurt people.
Not physically, but with angry words.
I’m sorry. I truly am. But I know too, the words, the raging, can never be taken back.
I think the difference between he and I is he never knew that. He thought “I’m sorry” should be enough.
Me… I know it’s not.
Sometimes… I wish… I could start over.