I LONG to do a Murder.
Despite my futile way-of-life and my rotting destroying half-acquiescence in it I have a furious positive Murder in me.
One near me in my daily life injures me and goes on injuring me in a way which is scourging and malicious and intensely petty. There is in it helpless humiliation for me—me self-loving, proud and determinedly unsuppliant—and it makes maddening Murder rise in me.
I don't know why I do not do the Murder. I have nothing to lose by paying the law-penalty: nothing but my life, and my life is stripped bare—and was always barren by God's decree—of all that makes a life sacred or lovely or precious. For long years and years, since child-days, I have been lost.
I don't know why I do not do the Murder: except that I think of it and brood over it and turn it round and round smoulderingly in my Mind. From no choice. I have tried to push the feeling away as a common thing beneath me. It is beneath me, for I am not little but someway big. But my Mind will take its toll of all that confronts me.
The humiliation and the helplessness to combat being humiliated in me who keep a casual proudness
