I still find myself angry about my Mom's passing. It's stupid to be angry about something that you have no control over, something that is really just a biological fact; however tragic and untimely. I guess it doesn't matter how far away from life expectancy you are, it's always going to be tragic and untimely though, eh?
It's scary, to find little pockets of anger inside you. I don't mean the little pockets of anger about the everyday retards you meet in life either; those small irritants that are really more comedy fodder than actual anger. I mean the real anger, the flash memories that set off a visceral response that locks your jaw and clenches your fists. Everything's cool and then something reminds you of how robbed you feel, and how that makes you angry, and sometimes you just wish that every bad thing in the world would happen to you; just so you could justify bathing yourself in the blood of the innocent. And as quick as it came, it ebbs back. It's scary, to know that there's something that makes you feel like that, even if only for a second. That's the kind of shit that erodes your character. Like a little bit of sand or water or wind, and a whole lot of time.
It's easy to ignore it, becuase it's so ugly. Assume you can keep compartmentalizing it, and what's a flash memory anyway, right? A couple seconds every week. Of every month. Of every year. For the rest.of.your.life.
So you're left with no choice but to face it. Allow it to rise to the surface and see your own duality. I'm not all good, and I'm not all bad; I'm all both. I don't know if it's more foolish to ignore the ugly things about yourself, or to assume that you can banish them. You can't change the things in your life that hurt you, because they leave scars.
And we all wear our scars differently, don't we.
Posted by shank at July 10, 2008 10:32 PM | TrackBack