Chapter 1: Charles
Serenity is deceptively soft, made of delicately manipulating words, a doctorate, partially in diplomacy and a sister falling asleep over your own thesis.
Rage is the many bigoted opinions daily voiced within the confines of a individuals head. It is seeing your beautiful dark-skinned sister and wishing you could show the world how lovely, how perfect she is - but being unable to do so. Rage is stepping back, warning her to hide her impossibly vibrant self, all for safety's sake.
Serenity is cool liquor down the throat and, like a balm, the accompanying mufflement of thousands of voices, formerly all too loud; all unknowingly vying for attention.
Rage lies in the ignorance displayed everywhere for those different. A refused position, but a desirable one since all around are the darkest wishes of mankind. The desires forever unvoiced: the wonderings of homicide, of inflicting unspeakable pain and-
Serenity is a losing battle.
Yet. . . it is one that must be fought. If rage is left unchecked then the unlimited potential all people carry within their genes -and minds- will never be reached.
Serenity must be chosen through stepping past the vestiges of rage carried in every particle of your body. It must be plucked from the thorn bush and nourished beneath a glass lid so that it may not be harmed until it is prepared to face the world and defend itself.
Rage is inevitable. Unfortunately crucial though most prefer to forget its existence. It is also incredibly strong but it cannot last forever. It can fuel the best of men to accomplish unpardonable things. It can lead, and carry, and harm through it's own ambition to consume all in its path.
Serenity is the opposite. Something to seek and oftentimes, never find. It is the utopia imagined by all humankind, the perfection artists strive for. It is a focal point of humanity. . .and it, is wrong.
For if the unattainable is brought forth, if the fantasy conquers the nightmare, if serenity becomes just another word within the many languages of this earth then there will be nothing left. No rage to fuel the fires of heart long set to burn supernova. To destroy indiscriminately.
If serenity is truly accomplished for all people then. . .contradictorily, it never will be found again.
Chapter 2: Erik
This one is quite a bit longer so. . . .beware lest you fall into the pit of eternal darkness from which there is no return.
Rage is a festering wound, a tortured mind unleashed without thought of any potential consequences upon the corrupt world engulfing it.
Serenity is an impossible dream, a memory of forbidden joy locked away behind nightly visions of revenge - and soothing nightmares bathed in crimson, dripping down the sparsely decorated walls.
Rage rules the heart, subsequently governing the mind through a painful obsession.
Serenity is ignored. A child's wish.
Rage is fear, unbridled and thickly cloying across the nose into limbs that still at the mere touch of two fingers upon a forehead.
Serenity is a word translated into innumerable languages but never understood. It shies away from this place knowing it does not belong to the owner.
Rage is bitter, grey eyes turned away, a rough hand reaching for a coin with the polished emblem of an eagle.
Serenity is laughter, forgotten and precious.
Rage is a place beyond pain and memories. No sorrow lingers there, no doubt, nothing but the vision of foreseen death.
Serenity is the sound of a single gunshot entering a body; the unending moment hated beyond belief and sanity's containment.
Rage is an unwilling recognition of the several faults in your plan. The burning faith of knowing you are right. That you are higher than all the humans endeavouring to survive around you. . .
Followed by the acknowledgement that you were born from human blood and that your bones contain the same iron and minerals they do. Thus the difference is not easily containable. How can it be when all humans struggle against their imminent demise. . .
Serenity is a comparison between a obvious monster, created through human folly, and yourself. Yet that knowledge is something unable to be voiced, lest all your plots fall away broken. Unsalvageable.
Rage, the terror of losing the purpose driving your fight for survival.
Serenity, a the losing battle created between yourself and the one who knows you best. . . .perhaps the only person you can consider a friend.
Yet despite the warring plethora of emotions within your chest, there is a clear space of grassy remembrance in which you desire reconciliation.
In which there lies a common ground, a mutual cause, a pain shared long ago to lift the dreadful, dragging weight off heavy shoulders coated in black. Coated in unshakable grief.
That place of drifting clouds, chess games shared, and quiet, peaceful laughter is a focal point between the emblems of rage and serenity.
That specific point is supposed to be nonexistent. To be sought eternally throughout a lifetime and only given after death is knocking at the antique, oaken door.
That point, unfound by many older and more experienced is unlocked with a single touch of featherlight fingertips for the sake of love.
For the memory of a story burned apart and ashes hidden among the desperate desire for blood. For unfulfilled revenge.
The heart does not desire to be ruled by cherished agony and old coins toyed with between fingers as you brood insensibly. It does not desire to leave behind it's other half simply because the bearer of each is unable to compromise.
The heart craves the point it knows by instinct to be rare, one of unsullied joy, laughter and home lingering between rage. . . and serenity.