Revenge Through Art and the Quiet Courage of Writing
Writing was, for one narrator, a form of revenge—not aimed at a person or a particular event, but a response to the sense that the world is hard to grasp. It is a world that can feel incomprehensible, cruel, and full of places where very few people ever find their footing. The act of putting words on a page became a way to push back against that cold reality. Reading and writing appeared as means to replace daily life’s harshness with something rendered in meaning, something that could be understood, measured, and held. In this sense, the writer found a kind of solace—an inner rebellion against the indiscriminate suffering that often marks existence.
These reflections accompanied a journey home after being asked whether public writing could be a form of revenge. On the subway, the question lingered, and the cadence of the car, the murmur of the crowd, made the thought feel almost like an experiment in honesty. Nearby, a person carried out a private ritual in a crowded car, a moment of secret consumption that seemed to reveal more about vulnerability than about appetite. It was not hunger that drove the action; it carried the weight of a personal history, a small rebellion against a life that may have felt humiliating or constraining. The scene whispered of how people cope with pain, the way small acts of secrecy or excess can be a way of reclaiming space and control.
The reflection broadened. Anorexia, alcoholism, vigorexia, and even DIY projects appeared as forms of revenge, ways people exert control over bodies, routines, and environments. A striking realization emerged: a large portion of the population carries a desire for retaliation against the life they were given. The narrator stepped into the street and watched a young cyclist weave through traffic, riding as if the road itself were a stage for reclamation. The world, it seemed, was shaped by revenge in many disguises, and the act of reading and writing stood out as one of the most refined, perhaps the most cautious, ways to express that impulse when measured against louder, more destructive outlets.
That evening concluded with a hunger that lingered beyond the dinner plate. Three yogurts awaited in the dim glow of an open refrigerator. The ritual was simple, the moment intimate, and the act of throwing them up by dawn took on a symbolic edge—a quiet, personal counterstrike against what felt unsettled inside. The night contained an unspoken message: sometimes revenge is not loud or dramatic but sits in the act of trying to understand, to articulate, to transform the ache into something that can be examined and, perhaps, endured with a touch more grace.
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