I don’t really know where the anger comes from. It takes just one little thing, and the rage bubbles up. It flames up within, like a fire exploding from silent, slowly burning embers.
It burns from within, a fire within a flesh-bound mold. It twists and writhes inside, an eel slithering free of my grip.
I want to bite, and scratch, and kick, and kill. I’ve never killed – not in real life anyway. I don’t act on it. In my mind, I have spilled another’s blood, not out of vengeance or duty, but out of pure rage.
It takes on a life of its own, this fury. It wants to taste violence, to feel pain, to see destruction, yet it’s a flame devastating an entire wood of emotion. Sometimes, it is the only thing that keeps me walking through the rain falling on this bleak, moderate existence.