Rage must be understood in order to be conquered. I need to understand my rage in order to conquer it. No one else can. Or who knows. My father might. He seems to understand it, he seems to recognize an old foolish self of his reflected on me and lets it come and go.
Rage gives me this enormous strength that I don’t want to use, but which I end up doing because it climbs up to my head like boiling milk overflowing. And it’s useless, I know. It’s this useless urge to scream and grab lapels and push away. To bring order out of chaos, with chaos. To bring reason through a completely unreasonable action. To run away and find out later that I’ve scraped my hands and arms in flight. Oh, adrenaline, you remorseless anaesthesia. A narrow escape from my own earthquake.
Who am I when I explode like that? What is the techtonic movement that summons the volcano within? Is there anything that could prevent this from happening again? There must be something bothering me deep inside, but I can’t seem to grasp it just yet. Now I’m just tired and disbelieving of my own self. What the hell is stuck inside here? What is it that I need to vent?