Anger.

I feel it beginning as a cold furnace, brighter and colder than anything I have ever experienced. Its genesis is in the vast emptiness of my core, made hollow by the everpresent anger, and sorrow, and regret.

That little anger. That sniggering little anger. It is always there, as it has been for most of my pitiful existence. That little asshole in my head that kept whispering to me that since I’m miserable everyone around me should feel “the cold reality of the world” as well.

But now it is different. It arises like a cold blue fire, eviscerating everything in its path, boreing up through the follicles, the roots of my hairs that are being slowly turned ashen. It is now burning stronger than ever, setting my very mind on fire to the point where its fury replaces all other obsessions – great in the number though they may be. Like a vicious circle and the self fulfilling prophecy, it feeds itself at the expense of all shreds of humanity that are reduced to nothing but mere kindling. Slowly stripping away all humanity, compassion, empathy — they are rippling and fading in the cold fury of Anger, hissing impotently as if they are being taken from me by the runaway train of my own unwilling creation, a Frankenstein’s creature, come Vishnu the destroyer, the destroyer of my inner peace.

So what does it all mean? Shall it ever stop? Or rather more importantly, shall it stop before annihilating my very essence, my culture, my civility, my capacity for love? Will I ever be able to love again? Would that I even want to?

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