hate - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Hate, my friend, is the devil's path, and we shall leave its ash-strewn surface without a single footprint. Always the temptation to walk it is a platter of logical and compelling reasons, ones that boost the ego and frame false-heroes. There is no prize worth the corruption of your soul; hate brings only pain and the cycles of destruction upon us all.
I wasn't a hero until you came after my baby girl. Then it was war. You crossed the line and I don't forget. I won't rest until you're beaten - and I don't mean just beaten down. I mean dead. There isn't a place you can hide, I will find you, destroy you. I don't much care how it happens, I don't need you to suffer, I just need your cold black eyes extinguished from this universe. You may think it an overreaction, but you underestimated how much I love her. Don't think I'll play by "the rules" either, love allows us to exterminate vermin that attack children. I'm coming. Just know it.
Your hatred of me is nothing but a transformation of your shame and insecurities... it is all you hate about yourself yet lack the courage to face. It is far easier to lose yourself in the theatrics of your mind, casting yourself as victim and leading lady, than it is to swallow even an ounce of truth. All you do is beat down a person who's already had more than their soul can take several times over. I ask you to find your own way out of your hatred, to see me for who I really am under the ever changing illusions conjured by your own mind.
You said you loved me and I took you at your word. You said I was your soul mate and over the years you became part of the bedrock of my personality. Then one sunny day, under a cloudless sky, you announced you were in love with someone else. It would have been kinder to kill me. Now I must be this person filled with a bitterness I can't control. She is to be the other mother of our children, you want them to call her “mommy.” If it wouldn't wound them so badly I'd see you six feet under and walk away without shedding a God damn tear, not one. The girl you met years ago under that apple blossom tree, the one with the big eyes and the bigger heart is now consumed by a hatred she never knew could take root. But here it is. Here we are. I am yesterday's news and she is the new bell of the ball. You hold her around her waist while the kids get their boots on to visit you. All the while I am forced to smile and make small talk. The hate doesn't ebb, it multiplies.
When I came to you with a toddler's open heart you only saw an annoyance, another mouth to feed, a bottom to wipe. But I saw you as my only hope to fill the void after loosing my mother. She fought to keep me and instead I got you, you who counted the slices of cheese and totted up your balance book. My crying was “manipulation” and my sadness was “put on for attention.” Every day you looked at the kid in front you and killed him a little more. Killed him with “professional care.” All I am is hatred, all I am is rage, and I won't give you the God damn satisfaction of seeing me at the bottom of a bottle. I'm going to ruin you, I'm gonna see that you pay. But before you look down on me with your university degree and your government stamp of approval, know that I'm working day and night to become someone with authority over you. And when I am I'm going to be just as “professional” as you were.
Hate colors the soul. It spreads throughout the entire system, shutting down all other feelings, and becoming central to the life and the intent of the person. The object of the hatred may or may not be present, but the imagined words and hostile actions against the hated one can dominate at times. One turns his/her attention to other matters, and may for a time be driven in other directions, but then the wave of ill thoughts return with a vengeance. Once again the soul is colored completely, and all the negative energy that one can muster is thrown into the imagined ill will racing wildly around the mind. Hatred becomes a sickness of the mind, and of the heart. For where hatred has claimed possession, there is no room for love. Left unchecked, hate can completely poison the soul.
Benji cast his eyes to the fresh dug soil. Mama was down there and God had taken her. What the hell did he need her for? The priest said he “Called her home” with a dopey look on his smug little face. Benji imagined his features rearranged by the business end of a shovel. She already had a God damn home and damn God for taking her. When he got to heaven he was kicking his ghostly ass all around the God damn place and burning the pearly gates. What was left now? Home with Papa. Papa who didn't even know how to break a smile or utter a kindness, Papa who found fault in every God damn little thing and wielded his meaty hands like the raw hunks of meat they were. Papa who was already tucking into the liquor and screaming at them to buy his cigarettes. God took the wrong damn parent and if something didn't change soon he was sending dear Papa to meet him. He kicked at the soil feeling the only love he'd ever known drain right through his boots and be replaced by ice.
The love that had been inside Jimmy as a baby had been crushed. It's a lie that given enough pressure coal becomes diamonds and it's a lie that a child's love treated with disregard will self-repair. Each person Jimmy offered his God given love to left it to wither and die like a common garden weed. He hid behind a smile and reinvented himself, learning the keep his feelings inside. The hurt lodged in that sweet heart like a slow acting poison and before long he became a “problem child,” destined for a life behind bars. He hated the “parents,” hated the system, hated the government and the whole damn world. It burst forth in his speech, his actions, his attitude. He got close to people just to hurt them, power at last. Nothing pleased him more than to walk away from a new lover while she whimpered. To Jimmy people were “bad, dangerous, and they deserved what they got."
Ryan spoke with his head to the dusty ground, “One day you'll hate me.” Claire stopped like she'd taken a bullet to the guts.
“Why would you say such a thing? I love you. I can't live without you.” Ryan raised his eyes to meet hers, so she would know he wasn't messing.
“It's what happens to great love when the expectations are too high. We'll be fine for a while, then the monotony of working life and kids will set in. I won't bring you flowers anymore. I'll forget our anniversary. Your friends will have nicer homes and fancier vacations. I won't be exciting, I'll be boring. Boring because I'm so damn tired.” Claire's face had lost what little colour it had had.
“Damn you, Ryan. That's nothing more than a lousy excuse not to try. Or maybe you just don't love me?!” Her eyes washed with the kind of tears that only come when people break in ways not easily repaired. But when she met his gaze his were just the same. He did love her. So what was all this nonsense about hate?
Hate and enmity welled up in his heart, fury itself burning him up.
Hate burned in his heart so deep that it was ingrained in the tissue.
Hate, for lack of better words, can be compared to anger and betrayal. 'Hate' is a word that people use lightly. "Oh, I hate it when..." "I hate that..." but hate; hate is indescribable. Hate is what turns the sweetest of people to the angriest. Hate is what makes the hero turn into the villain. Hate is the feeling that makes you wonder "Would I feel anything if i were to kill this person? Would I feel sadness? Anger? Would i feel like my shoulders have been lifted?"
Hate is what fuels some of us.
Hate can break us.
Hate can hurt us.
Hate can turn us into things we feared as children.
Hate is powerful, but what people try not to say, is that even though your hate is huge and you know the answer to the questions above, hate can motivate us. People tell you "Never hate someone." "To hate someone, means that they have power over you." But hate can help us to have the better life, the better job. Hate can help us to be the better person. Hate can be good or bad, but its your decision.
They say anonymous hate hurts us but I think it only hurts us because when we read it, we don't hear the attacker's voice but we hear our own instead.
Hate. like a volcano, pressure created from hot, boiling magma, that contained enough heat to make mud boil. Hate expands, like anything that gains heat. It grows, as it expands, it explodes. And just like a volcanic eruption, hate kills.
"David, it is easier to hate than to face our loss. It is easier to follow distractions than to see the pure spark we held become ashes. I choose to walk through this grief with love intact, because on the other side remains our salvation, true forgiveness. All roads will lead onward, never back, branching out into the future. None can be seen more than one step at a time; love is the only sign post, the only way home."
I love you. Wait, that's not what I wanted to say. It feels like an obligation to say it to you. You stopped all communication with me. I made excuses for you time and time again. Then it finally hit me, you don't love me. I loved you with all I could but you didn't even acknowledge it. So its safe to say that I hate you and I mean that in every possible way. I was just a placeholder for someone that was taken from you. I'm nothing to you. I fucking hate you.
Donald spoke with a coldness she'd never heard before. “I don't just want to kill you, I want to put you in a pit and add the shovels of dirt slowly until your God damn mouth is full of muck. I want to hear the suffocation of your cries. I want to know the second you don’t exist anymore so I can savour it. I don't care if you're sorry anymore; I don't want to hear it. You should have told me all that crap back when it could have made a difference, back when I loved you. You took what was beautiful in me and made it into what it is today. I hope you're proud; it's all your handiwork.” Donald grinned showing yellowed teeth amongst the stubble, his eyes wide and unblinking. He ran a bony-hand through his thinning hair, his thin lips turning upwards into a smile, one hand fingering the gag in Sophia’s mouth, the fabric a scarf given to her by her mother only days before. He pulled out the knife she'd bought him for their tenth wedding anniversary in Rome, a letter opener, and let the tip rest on her nape, watching her eyes for the fear he’d longed to see, feeling a sick sense of joy rise within him.