Paradoxical Confessing (Or, The Bruxist’s Manifesto)

Untangling the grasping, sticky vines of my thoughts, I surprise myself with a revelation: I am a violent man. My belief in love and tolerance is shotgun-peppered with anger and rage. A simmering cauldron of hot blood whose fire has now been stoked to boiling point, caution thrown to the winds. A gathering storm of inchoate fury and scalding rain.
Since the loss of my wisdom, there is nothing to stop my jaw from clamping tight. I speak through gritted teeth, grinding my words into a creamy, enamel powder that flecks my spittle. Rabid and raving, the wolf that has lived in my heart for so long has clawed his way up through my chest and seeks an exit into the world through my mouth.
Love each other or die, is my manifesto. No pussy-footing, no weasel words. Build a world that works; build it quick. Dark times are coming: my shadow-self looms ever larger, my mercurial sharer edges towards the cabin door. Love each other as the wolf loves your throat. Talk now before his howl drowns out the sound of your voice for ever.