Do not mistake my gentleness for weakness.
The strong hand is a gentle one.
Your Tension is fearful.
Violence is fearful. Anger is fearful.
For the rowdy male is frightened. Internal eye on only his weakness. He knows he is weak. They know.
And so he attracts the weak, for the strong disregard him. His company, who he dominates to falsely validate himself, is his reflection.
He is a playground bully – stuck in the little boy.
The gentle man, by contrast, is silent.
Weakness is an inability to do what must be done.
The blemished male has an eagerness to act violently in mad defence of a rotting kingdom of blame, shame and excuse.
The gentle man will be aggressive if the moment calls for it, but never violent, and always benevolent in his correction of the adversary. He, loves all.
Yet few are willing to look at themselves and make the necessary corrections before attempting to correct others.
The gentle man, by contrast, corrects self.
Through the necessary internal adjustments I embolden and enlighten my reflections and therefore myself.
I am the dark angel, emanating from the light.
Your death has come to save you.
As I gracefully walk, things gently weep and wilt around me,
reborn beautifully in my wake.
Untouched by chaos.
I am a beacon of peace.
The eye of the storm.
My woman is my art. I cut into her with the blade of my stillness, and then mend her up with the light of my love.
I, her great destruction. I, her loving healer. She, the bubbling, churning abyss of my passion.
We die. We are reborn. We integrate.
And as I foster the seed of her might, the tree of my power thickens and entrenches itself deeper into the earth, becoming increasingly unmovable,
and unfathomably solid.
I am fluid. I am strong. I am gentle.