"The First Rule Of Fight Club Is..."

For the past hour and a half, I've been feeling anxious, aggressive. There's a piece inside me that wants to feel pain, not the wussy emotional pain that we feel every day, but the pain that is the direct result of a fist of flesh slamming on another slab of it. Why? Something about it is welcoming, refreshing, and real. They say time is relative and how we (that is, you, myself, and Jane/Joe next to you) percieve is completely different. For some, there is never enough time; for others, there are copious amounts of it. And something tells me that emotional pain can perhaps be treated the same. Some of us shrug it off, as if we're acclimated to this, and as for others, let's just say that they lose the will to live. But the physical pain that's caused by our raw and primitive nature is constant. We will always bleed when we take more than our bodies can handle, our faces will grimace when we feel it coursing through our bodies, and we will always relish the taste of power when we see a limp body lying in defeat by our hands. It's a constant everyone sees and everyone fears. And now it seems near impossible to have a chance to taste that pain - only in the darkest corners of the world can we release our frustrations and have an opportunity to find that power. These opportunities are truly golden now because the culture we all live in now measures masculinity by what you own/possess, NOT by the power you can demonstrate with your fists. Also, it seems that many males are afraid to fight, to try to hold their own against someone else. Of course there will always be that rascal of a man who's willing to fight anything and anyone, but they fight, I presume, for the wrong reasons - for their girl, family, money, country or whatever else you'd like to chose. But nobody really fights for themselves anymore - to test their strenght, to get stronger, or even just for the hell of it. Nowadays, people just brandish their piece and get what they want - no punches thrown, no fight instigated, and in the end we just see a wimpering coward and his subdoer. Again, the culture that constantly measures a man by his possessions is perpetually drilled into our minds and we find on our hands and knees toiling and slaving to buy the things that define us, rather than working to define ourselves. Such a reality is depressing and emasculating, when you measure your very manhood on something so foolish as your possesions. There's nothing wrong with having nice toys, but when you allow them define you - then you f*cked yourself up.