Sunday, February 18, 2007

Anger is an energy.

I stand barefoot in the grass in my garden paradise and hold my arms outstretched as the sky weeps for the dry earth and drip drop dancers fall in torrents and pit pit patter pit pat percussionists rumble rhythms on the tin roof of my decking. But there's something else in the air at the moment, thunder and lightning, and I've created it. My stomach matches the clouds, both churning, yearning for release and pushing white hot forks of electricity out like the razor sharp tongue of an emotionally charged viper. Flick, fork, fuck, fucking fuck.

How is this here again?

I want to scream it all out, wring myself of it all in a single violent explosion, so I contort the muscles in my face tight and terrified, squeezing like Hell to shit it all out. Primordial aggression, instinctive reactions to a pain that can't be healed, and a weight that slowly crushes the light out of me. FUCK OFF. I want to slam my fist into my chest and rip that duplicitous beating heart out from its cage, I want to hold it aloft and let the energy of the storm destroy it once and for all. Take it, take it, I don't fucking want it.

And anger morphs to frustration and frustration turns to sorrow and sorrow blooms into a dying rose.

And the rain falls harder, and tries to bring the flower to life.

But I just fall onto my arse, on the grass, in the mud, and face first I topple and taste the bitter dirt of resignation.

Fuck you, fuck me, fuck it all. Cunts. Fuck.

The rain stops, and when I lift my head, there is the cat, and her cat eyes are cold.

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