I am breeding anger, cultured from every inch of me: my hair, my fingers, my wrists, neck, navel, chin, elbows… The anger unpeels and reveals itself, slipping out like a gentle foliage. Anger itself is prudent in its way, it's only its actions that causes damage. Today all the screaming, door-slamming, scissors throwing losing my ruler screaming screaming screaming and screaming, all purely bred from anger.
Today I got so angry at myself sorely out of self-loathing reflection and disgust: I am a terrible person. But then other things cling to mind as well, days are numbered and I fear I miss out anything else to pack, to bring; I don’t even know how to operate my luggage as I wonder why the hell does one need extra extension space.
I jerk and I yell and my mother asks me to calm down but I cannot when I can’t find the bloody answer to how long has the damn truck travelled when the speed is half of the original speed. I scream “it’s always me me me me me I am so angry” and it doesn’t work because I am still angry, angry at the pair of bloody scissors, the stupid clothes hanger. Anger is mischievous in its own ways, so I don’t know how to continue.
Stop, halt, freeze.
Remember to breathe.
Help me choose a book: Atonement, Enduring Love or South of The Border, West of The Sun? (First two my Ian McEwan and third by Haruki Murakami) because I don’t know which one to bring.
No comments:
Post a Comment