It isn’t so much that I’ve nothing to say. It’s muted. I give it no sounding. There is this terrible arrhythmia to the human pulse that I have my finger pressed upon, and my teeth clench, throbbing through my jaw, but silence. A scream as if in space. No medium for sound, the vacuous echo of breath in my skull. Much of life doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t understand people. I don’t understand anger, and yet it is the deepest well of my psyche. I am too rational for anger, but there it is, pumping up in arterial spurts and poisoning the ocean. Silently.
Anger is this thing that exudes from me rhythmically, possession…release, possession…release, possession…release. It is the thrumming of a moderate life, combed out to lay straight and oriented and generally aligned to appear orderly. But it is the cordage on the loom the shuttle sails through. It carries the color, the love, fear, energy and lethargy, the tapestry of my life is built upon anger and my anger is knotted in.
It is this weird thing to think about this part of me. Others don’t seem to see it. It is an invisible rug I lie upon, insulated, I suppose, from something. It is furtively inside me, changes the sound of my tread with its weight. It comes and it goes but is somehow ever present. And as I tilt forward swaying when it builds and fills me and changes my center of gravity and my face is maligned with the bruise blue storm of it there like a bobber or a leaf or a tiny boat at sea I float, desperate, hauling on lines or just hanging on. It is a squall at flood tide and rips and batters but retreats, and the wreckage is safe in the sand. It swells and falls and froths and spills across my feet and sprays against my back and it is hell and it is wet but it ends.