It's remarkable how long anger can hibernate within a person’s body. It’s funny, because people tend to say that time heals all wounds, but everyone knows that while that statement isn’t complete bullshit, it isn’t necessarily true for all cases. With every human emotion comes a trillion different segments or variations, splintering off into shards with their own separate definitions and separate cures. Anger, like love, is so implausibly personal that even talented, weathered psychologists cannot really aid a person’s mitigation from it, instead they have to listen, put up with the outbursts and fits and night terrors stemmed from built up rage with nowhere to go; or they medicate them until all they’re left with are living zombies, beings so disconnected from their own minds that they are like escaped balloons floating silently and helplessly away into the lower troposphere above a bustling, heated city... just blank pieces of paper that the pen could never fully touch down upon.
It’s believed that over a third of all teenagers in the U.S alone have been involved in physical fights, some [like me] for entertainment or real reason, but most are just to actually display that pent up rage. It’s like a tag attached to the package of being a teenager, this impossible rage at everything, that comes from the sudden realization of a) the fact that you have to deal with this world alone, and b) that almost everyone in it, save a few people, are assholes. And yet the way that we’re taught to deal with this anger, from birth, is to swallow pretty little white pills or to pretend that it was all a nightmare. We’re read fairytales of princesses and princes in castles who experience such horrific traumas as losing a fucking glass slipper, who all end up living ‘happily ever after’ because a fairy godmother waved her magic stick and made everything better. It’s sweet to hear when you’re three years old, but when the message is continued through life that your own prince charming will come and you will live happily ever after, and you realize that it's utter bullshit; you're mother becomes your ‘fairy godmother’ inhabiting you with the lovely snow white pills that will make magic with chemicals in your endocrine system and it’ll all be alright again, because every boiling, searing hot feeling you feel burning up inside of your circulatory system will be numbed with the sweetness of suppressants.
As a person, I know a lot about anger. Sometimes I can feel it become me, define me -almost- as it spreads like an itching, burning rash through my insides and contaminates every cell, filling me with that scorching lust for the expression of itself. Maybe I’ve always been angry. I just grew up understanding the meaning of the word too well, but never really let it fill me at any given chance. Through my teenage years, everything hit me with the speed of a bullet and the force of a fucking solar system. I had a universe crammed inside of my head, but I wouldn't show it. I had the pressure gauge turned up to the extreme. Little bits of everything whirled around and around like dust and crap inside the sac of a vacuum cleaner, and sooner or later I wouldn't be able to separate out my anger at particular events and my anger at other events, it would just combine in a tremendous cluster, a calcified ball of blood and emotions; it'll buzz violently and spark a blinding electric blue, before the charge builds up further, and soon it has its own electrical field, orbiting it as satellites orbit a planet, barbed wire shaped and bright, bright, bright fucking blue. Sometimes it just flares up, touches the surface, which provokes an outburst of rage from inside me, aiming ammunition at the outside world. But most times it would soften, die down a little and lay low. It's just waiting for the day to explode.
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