My Anger

Why is it that the only time I am inclined to write is when I am angry? Is anger such a bitter emotion that it awakens all senses?

Damn right I am angry. That is why I am writing... to rid myself of this infuriating sentiment that is making every part of my being tremble in dismay. Utter disappointment. It's pathetic.

When can I ever have that peace? Why do I always have to be upset? These eggshells are all around me... it's disheartening. One false move, and I break the shell. Then chaos begins. The turmoil of mixed emotions. The battle between reason or conscience. The heart or the mind. Which one will it be?

Time and time again, I'd let this angst slide. It'll all be better in the morning I tell myself. Yah. This too shall pass. And it will. But not far in between, here it comes again. Like a cloaked dagger awaiting my most vulnerable moment -- and then it will hit.  And then comes the discord. The disquiet. The pain of being pained for nothing. A whole lotta' nothing!

Well, this time...  I think I'm ready to settle with reason. I think it's time that I care about my own well-being, rather than worry about how a selfish disposition will or might affect the afflicted - if affliction is indeed the case, and not the culprit.

I am tired of the ricochet. After a while it becomes old. And then there is nothing left.

This too shall pass? Of course it will. As it always has. As it always be. But am I willing to go through the whole script again like a broken record? Maybe not. Not this time.

I am weary.