Why am I so bloody angry? And I am. All the time. I am going on this rock climbing outing. In the group comments on the interwebs where the organising happens somebody posted a question about how we will be getting up to the site. So the first thing that popped into my head was “Fucking donkeys. I have never been in a donkey cart before and I feel now is my chance.” Came real close to actually posting that answer too. Then I saw my friend tagged me in a Facebook post and I got really excited about it – because very few people ever do that – until I read the post. She nominated me to say three positive things each day for seven days. So while before something positive was a respite for my brain which goes “What the fuck? What the fuck? WHAT. THE. FUCK!” the rest of the time and during positive moments is sort of like “Oh. OK.”, now I have to think about it and note it in order to post it later on because otherwise I’m that negative arsehole. Which I am but do not necessarily want to keep on being one. So I have to act and pretend being positive. And now this feels like a remedial assignment because I failed being positive enough the rest of the time. Why can’t I be a normal fucking human being?
Category Archives: Anger
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?
Forlorn Hope: A Diary Of A Broken Heart 