I don’t know that I’ll ever understand her, my lovely toxic ex metamour. I cannot really explain the passion and drive of misguided strength. But this thought passes through my head, as I’m watching the Borgias, where a man of God is tortured near to death. How could he survive? Why did he not break? “A misguided strength is still strength,” one of the cardinals observes. He cannot, but he can not be wrong.
But I think it is more. I mean, I don’t think misguided strength is merely a strength, but one of the greatest strengths! As in pure strength, the feeling of it alone. As in an ox’s strength over a mouse. The mouse may possess great internal strength, but it’ll still get stomped. No, this strength is simple but overwhelming.
I’ve felt passionately, as much as I believed humanly possible, towards a particular object. I am sure I’ve felt strength, at any rate, a sort of strength. Something in me that keeps me going. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” I hear often enough.
Yet a piece of me wonders, worries, “Am I doing the right thing?” Little doubts creep in. I pause, I step back. I think maybe I shouldn’t do this thing at all, no matter how my friends support me. How do I know we are all not wrong?
But, God, the determination of those who possess that misguided strength!
Misguided in the sense that it, for all the world can see, takes them not only down an undesired path but one that is completely at odds with what they claim to be after. And keep going down it at the same rate as before, if not faster!
It is the person driving themselves further and further down their own hole, but not even a fun one, like an Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole, but simply a deep, empty pit.
It is the football player mowing his opponents down to score against his own team. Is there something I’m missing, you think? But, no, they think they are doing the right thing for themselves. They are doing this on purpose. They think they are claiming a touchdown for their own team. But everyone else can see them running, full force, in a direction that cannot possibly succeed the way they think it will.
I do not wish for my own downfall. I am not a masochist in any sense of the word. But sometimes I just want that drive.
I’ll leave with this little bit of wisdom I got from a poem written by a cockroach:
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself