Sunday, September 7, 2008

Rage



Rummaging through the closet, I reminded myself yet again, I seriously needed to clean up my mind. Pushing aside angst, which whimpers in protest but then trails off whining as I shove it one side, I look impatiently for rage. I pause for a moment, running my fingers along the soft, shivering warmth of sadness, hesitating, as nerve-endings vibrate a poignant want. I ignore despair which petulantly slashes at me with its razor sharp claws, nicking me and causing blood to trickle down the pale, freckled skin of my arm. Ignoring the sting, I rummage impatiently until suddenly, in the back of the closet, my fingers meet the soft, intense warmth of rage.

Sighing, I grasp the full, richness of its fulsome bodied emotion and drag it out in the muted light of the room. Rage is red, a rich vibrant ruby colour, pulsating with an anxious need to explode into being, a wanting, needing feel that to my jaded hands feels comfortable and known. For rage and I are old friends, … rage and I have spent so much time together that I know it intimately, in and out… all the twisted, convoluted corridors of its mind from the first small prickling of fury to the exploding passion of wrath.

I pull rage around my shoulders, nestling into the comfort of its crimson embrace. It feels right, rage. It feels like that warm, comfortable coat that you keep reminding yourself to get rid of – that it has outlived any use it might ever have had, it is worn and no longer viable. Rage is like that. But it feels so intrinsically RIGHT, my rage. Although well used and worn, pulled out into the light of day again and again, my rage is still vibrant, rich and useful.

The material of rage is strong and resistant. I hear despair scrabbling at its deceptively soft surface, trying to insinuate its dark, trickling sliminess inside. But rage holds despair easily at bay- refusing ingress. Sadness manages to slip by now and again, little hamster feet scrabbling frantically and burrowing into rage’s deep pockets, but sadness can’t get past that final barrier and lick wretchedness into the pale, vulnerable skin of my stomach.

It has been a while since I’ve worn rage and I shift my shoulders slightly; it feels just slightly off, not quite the same. A sudden breeze raises the fine hairs on my arms, and I shiver within rage’s close embrace. I realize that rage isn’t as warm as it used to be. When I donned rage before it would feel as if my blood pressure was up, as if the very blood in my veins were boiling and threatening to erupt through the pores of my skin. Its… well, cooler now. This rage which envelops me in its smothering want has a frigid, cold feel to its embrace that I have never experienced.

I shrug, and close my eyes and drink in the feel of rage and realize that there is a burning element to it .. but a burn like that of pure, pristine, relentless cold. The prickling, clear knife-like kiss of frost, licking pain along the edge of need, nuzzling agony into the crevasses of want and stinging hurt into the abyss of a soul destroyed.

I sigh and lean back prosaically into its cruel embrace, finding in the pain a certain vindication of the life which flickers so uncertainly within the grossness of a betrayed body. Calmness permeates this new rage, so much so that I almost don’t recognize my old friend. I reflect too on the inevitability of change and how even my rage, tried and true, can metamorphosize into something I barely recognize.

Musing, I realize that the record I hear, droning in the background of my consciousness, is scratched and battered, the needle sticking in the groove of remembered accusations. Time and repetition, however, do not make things any more valid or truthful nor do they turn fiction into belief or truth.

I reflect (and sadness manages to nuzzle its damp nose into my heart, just for a second, before I allow rage to do what it does best and chase sadness away), that one false step (and not even the one of which I am accused) and I am condemned… again. I question my own penchant for choosing those who demand perfection, who cannot tolerate even the smallest misstep, the slightest variation from a path set, whose use words to obfuscate and confuse the issues at the core of the matter.

I question again my own dysfunctional need to cling to those who purport responsibility for their own actions yet in truth settle the blame snugly around my shoulders. I remember a father like that … a mother, siblings, a lover …

I feel a flicker deep within the tattered remnants of my soul as rage sends a tendril of flame along the intricate passageways of my id. For I know, that I am many things … some of them not so nice – but what I am NOT is what I am accused of being. And I breathe out and breathe in, deep lung-filling breaths which fan the flames and I feel rage flicker, then strengthen until sighing, the flames explode in a conflagration of wrath and the cool, molten flames of rage are pinpoints of hell within the green of eyes gone dead.

1 comment:

Angel said...

Very well said.

Reading your post made me feel an appealing melancholy somehow.

I like the the way you described your rage using anthropomorphic imagery. Rage is a very personal thing, is it not?

Rage can be a very cleansing tool. When the flood overflows, the release can be - well - quite climactic. Like a red, red rain washing everything out. Rage can also be a needful catalyst when we need to act.

I don't know who or what released this rage in you my friend, but I hope the rage washes itself out and that you will regain that much-needed equilibrium.