Wednesday, June 12, 2013

A LONELY RAGE

It is dangerous when someone pops off and says they're not afraid of anyone or anything. Once they're reached that point they are beyond reason; they don't want to hear about logic; they cannot be touched by the better angels. Their silence is a good signal that you should begin to inch away, always keeping your calm face in their direction, never turning around so they can see your back. You don't turn your back on a panther; behind its cool and level gaze is a monster, foaming at the fangs, ready and more than willing to tear you apart. You can run from it, or you can kill it. But you cannot make peace with the monster. It only wants to destroy you before tearing itself apart in a frenzy.

I am not afraid of anyone or anything, except for the anger inside me. Its ferocity terrifies me. I have to take deep breaths right now to keep from kicking a wall, punching a fist through glass, pounding my head into the pavement. I am no stranger to brutality, but this is a madness waiting to explode and I feel shaky even typing these words. I am so fucking pissed at everything now — the arc of my life, the slights and insults I have allowed, the humiliation I have swallowed, the indifference of those around me. I want to grab the nearest rock and send it crashing though a window so I can scream at the people inside: Did you really think I was just going to lie down and die without a fight? Did you think there would be no consequences for your actions? Here they are, you fuckers. See you in hell.

There remains a small, civilized component in my reptilian brain. It keeps my fists at my side and my tongue in check, for now. I do not wish to make news. I will not make news. I promise not to make news. I will keep all of this raging emotion stuffed inside, keep pushing it down and swallowing it and not wince at the bitter taste. The best way to get rid of this fury would be to direct it at the most-deserving target: the goddamned stupid fucking idiot who allowed all of this to happen in the first place. Everyone wins. The ones who wronged me can gloat in victory. The ones who stuck with me can sigh with relief — finally, that hot mess is out of our hair. Now we know why he stopped talking. Everyone gets to drink at the open bar. I'd say that's a win-win outcome.

Once you've left a lonely rage on its own, it grows.
And dynamite stuffed in a mailbox doesn't smoke until it blows ...

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