However. I feel like some of you might have been under the impression that something happened yesterday (or recently) that incurred my wrath.
No such thing happened. Instead, this is something that's been around for quite a while.
That's the main problem, I guess. What I have, it's old rage. It's aged ire, accumulated over the years, fermented in the deepest pit of my being, congealed and conglomerated into . . . something else. Something more abstract, yet, I suspect, more potent. For this reason, I can no longer say where it came from.
Some of you say to confront the source, the cause of my anger. You see why I can't. If you like, you can say that I'm angry at the universe in its entirety, or that I am only angry at myself. They might as well both of them be true.
Some of you say to deal with the anger as soon as possible and not let it pile on. I am sorry, the pile had been there already. I do try not to add to it, but what can I say. It's still there.
For the most part, my pit seemed enough. (Be honest: you've never seen me angry, have you?) But lately . . . I fear of overflowing. I think it's already happened in small leaks. In front of the ones I see every day, I willingly, maybe even intentionally, present a grumpy and irritable persona. One time I even caught myself trying to suppress a genuine smile, for no other reason than because . . . I had them as witnesses.
I do wish that it manifests in a better, more specific way, Matilda-like. I do wish this is how sorcery starts. But so far, no such luck. I am left to my own, more mundane, devices.
I've tried singing. I've tried rapping. Loud as I can, fast as I can. It worked, for a while. But the thing in the pit seems to be stronger, and when the music stops, as it must after some time, the pit-thing bubbles menacingly.
I've tried writing. Oh, Lord knows I've tried writing. But just because I write things down, doesn't mean I forget them. Forgive me for saying this, but my memory is, I believe, quite a few pegs above average. Far from enabling me to let go and leave the fury behind, my writings instead become monuments to my memories inside my memory. And the pit-thing delights as it feeds from my memory.
***
I fear that it is too late. That the pit-thing is too powerful. That if I began to intentionally let some anger out, I would be unable to stop.
That when the rage is upon me, it won't be enough just to break inanimate objects. I'd want to take an ax and chop down every tree in the world.
It won't be enough to stomp on innocent invertebrate vermin like cockroaches and mosquitoes. I'd want to wring kittens' necks. Wait, no. What was I thinking? They're small, I can do their entire bodies. One spine at a time.
It won't be enough to box with another person. I'd want to hunt a human, corner them, grin as wide as I can, break their arms and legs (just to make things easier), and, with them tearful and screaming, sink my teeth into their throat, tasting their tendons, getting high on the smell of their warm, fresh blood.
It won't be enough to shout curses and imprecations at Reality. I'd want to crucify Tze-Yo-Tzuh and stab Them in the guts.
*****
And I dig the pit deeper, drenched in latent rage, throwing out bits and more bits of me.
It doesn't overflow. It doesn't.
