A few months ago, a friend of mine recommended I try to tie an Eldredge knot. After getting tangled in my tie the first few times, I managed alright. A month or so later, I decided to try again, and here is the result:
A strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.
Fill (someone) with such a feeling; provoke anger in.
The anger and frustration.
I can feel the darkness sitting on my chest, weighing me down like a stone. At first it was like a black cat resting on me, a barely noticeable presence, but now I feel it rise and heave with every breath.
It came unexpectedly.
Actually, that is a lie; I was angry with society since the party last week, and studying legislation about sexual offences did not help. It made me angry. Maybe it is wrong to question myself when faced with something that nobody else seems to be bothered with. Maybe not. I am by no means the smart one; after all, I’ve just been questioning whether or not I would have been in the wrong to punch a man for what I felt was inappropriate behaviour towards the woman he knew was interested in him.
But, then, what good would that do us? I can’t force anybody to look at things my way, and I know better than to assume that morality and ethics are set in stone. Besides, she seems happy enough, and I don’t really have a say in the way things go between them. It is their story, I suppose, and she is an adult who can take care of herself. After all, this was a one-off occurrence, and I cannot judge the man from it – I had only just met him, after all. But how often does something have to occur for it to be considered part of one’s character – part of, to put it bluntly, being an asshole? And where do we draw the line for interference, then?
Perhaps I am just angry at my inability to articulate all this to her. Or perhaps I’m just angry at the world and myself for letting small injustices occur.
In other news, I foolishly advised a friend of mine that it was better to hate someone than to just feel numb. I forgot to point out that anger and hatred lead to feeling numb, because they are such exhausting emotions.
I suppose that could mean I’m always walking around with this anger. Yet I am numb enough to let it simmer quietly beneath the surface most of the time, until it flares up again.
The woman seemed out of time. The lettuce green scarf wrapped about her head and the long silent look she wore spoke of another place. Deep brown eyes brimmed with sorrow as she weaved quietly across the square. Although she was almost hobbling, she moved quietly. Her footsteps made no sound on the stonework.
Nobody seemed to see her, as if she were a ghost of some Christmas past. The deep grooves on her face morphed into a painful frown as she paused. Her brown eyes looked right at me, and then past me. I was as invisible to her as she was to them. I did not figure in her equation, as she did not figure in mine.
She hobbled a little further until she reached the pillar, and then sank to the ground. People came and went past her; still she was invisible to them. Slumped against the edifice, her trembling hands brought out a white paper cup. Still no one saw. Perhaps they chose not to see.
Minutes later, she stumbled to her feet, wove her way across the plaza and vanished.
Sleep well, weary youth.
I am sorry to say I did not know you,
Who hastened to dine with immortal gods
And drink with forgotten heroes
At eternity’s rich table.
Sleep well, tired traveller.
I am sorry to say our paths never did cross
In our journeys across this fair earth.
But I know
In Ithaca we shall meet,
When my candles are spent.
Sleep well, exhausted explorer.
I am sorry to say we did not laugh together,
In company you and I
Did not make merry
And weep with mirth
At comic tales of luck and love.
Sleep well in rest divine,
While we here keep a vigilant eye.
I am sorry to say you will be missed,
By her most of all.
Sleep and you’ll see,
She will find her smile again,
While she regales this petty poet
With stories of you.
Who I have never known,
Yet weep for in secret sorrow.
When love is not madness, it is not love.
Pedro Calderon de la Barca.
I met an old man with a castaway’s beard and a toughened leather jacket. Had it not been a different colour from his reddened skin, it would have been difficult to separate the layers.
His eyes gleamed almost joyfully as he met my stare.
A fraction of a second, I walked past and he slowly clamped his fist shut with his thumb pointed straight up, skywards.
I smiled and plodded on.
No words passed between us in that short second. Yet those wrinkles etched into his old skin had stories to tell.
I miss the sea.
I take a swig of water.
It is quiet in the city tonight.
My mind battles with the emotion that stirs within.
There is not a soul to be seen.
The anger boils, the frustration bubbles.
Not even a leaf quivers in the absence of a breeze.
All beneath the surface.
Nature has finished her sentence and this is the fullstop.
There must be something that can be done.
Nature has nothing more to say to the horrors we hide away under dusty floorboards and atop new shelves.
Something must be done.
There is nothing more to be said.