Hate, when deliberately cultivated and nurtured, cannot hope to be wielded as a bull’s-eye emotion. It rarely has a pinpoint aim, a finite target, over time. It is a catastrophically diffuse entity, a juggernaut of a sandstorm snuffing out the life in everything, even the source of its own creation. It therefore cultivates and nurtures a will of its own; it is off target, out of context, over-the-top, posturing above natural law. It chases after unchecked power. It is beside itself with fear. Reason and sanity come under siege. Empathy, compassion and truth become cell mates under arrest by the warden of hate. This is the sordid odyssey of an uneasy enterprise.
This is P.B. Hollingsworths’ Shoe Shoppe.