Of all the feelings a human being can bear inside, I believe there is nothing compared to anger.
It drives one crazy enough to commit murder, to seek revenge to the depths of the Earth and to live forever in solitude. This strange sensation makes its bearer capable of hurt and blood and soreness, and it destroys all and everyone in its way. Inside, it carries a pool filled with frustrations and misunderstandings which flows into a waterfall of regrets and sorrows. Human rage, they call it.
We have seen anger for most of our life. Our parents, we believe, hated each other. They never had the guts or the courage to let either one go, but they were always there, fighting with the big words and the uncountable threats to each other’s lives. Arguing, whining, trying. Their trials were never longer than three days and quick enough all was back in its place. As soon as the water of sorrows encountered rhythm and a new flow, everything was back where it was. Life was again following its strange course.
I wasn’t exactly born in rage, but I know that I have carried it with me for most of my life. I guess she didn’t know much about it before I came into her life, but I am sure we both learned a great deal of this outrageous feeling throughout our years together. It was a developed sensation which burned inside us from time to time, mostly caused by the times we felt deeply unheard. I know, we’ve talked about this before, but this time is about how we secretly wished some people had life taken away from them. We wanted blood for blood.
Anger has shaped the way we see the world. For many years we thrived for light and peacefulness, but anger has always knocked the door in the back of our heads. We do not believe in the blessing of ignorance, thus, when the world turns quiet upon our questions, hate finds the door open and it runs through without second thoughts. For long time it did, at least, but lately we’ve been watching it more closely. The true strangeness is when we see rage in someone else’s eyes without finding the source or the home for such presence.
Punching the wall out of madness, making holes in the soul for being lost. Frustrations everywhere, regrets come to place. Anger has made of our days its home and we no longer wish to bear such burden. We wish to release ourselves from the sorrows that condemn this world and the ones who choose to live in the ignorance within. We crave for plain answers, clear thoughts and exposed hurt.
And as we chose to believe and move on, the feathers of knowledge begin to fall into its soft place when all the rage of the damned dive into their waterfall of sorrows, regretting those nights and flowing into their dark river of silence which will soon be as empty as the worlds solitude.
