Surf

Sometimes, you have to live on anger, let it roll through you like a wave and push you forward into the world. Sometimes, anger is the only thing keeping you from crumpling in place, head bowed under the weight of what you face, immobile. Anger can spark movement, and movement is almost always a good.

I choose to be furious; I choose to move.

Take your stupid silence and your quiet acceptance and keep them to yourself. Don't bind me up in the immobility of the blind. I rage, I crash, I crackle, I dance, I create, I destroy - I cannot be tamed with simple three-word phrases and complacency. Get off your ass and move with me!

I am as fickle as the tide of anger that currently sustains me. I am arbitrary, and I can't decide if it bothers me more that you do not acknowledge that or that you do not notice it. Perhaps it even pleases me.

Aaaargh! My pen strokes are sharp with my temper, jagged like the teeth of my psyche. Let me bite into life, with all its zillion flavors.

(Behind my fervor is a well-spring of tears that would merrily drown me if only I were to stop moving.)