The need to write something down is pulling itself from the tips of my fingers into my keyboard.  The springs under each key bouncing back with a pop that says, push me down again... again... again!  Children on a trampoline, bouncing and laughing.

But I am not laughing.  I am actually angry today.  A sullen, dark anger that has been building for several weeks and finally exploded out of me in a volcanic rush of acidic remarks and sulfuric tears. It's still rumbling inside of me, an ulcerated stomach with no promise of relief from a magic purple pill. 

There are several things about anger that I understand now.  I understand why red is an angry color.  The backs of my eyelids are prominently red from exhaustion. Anger makes me tired.  I understand why anger is bad for my health.  My back is in knots and my head is throbbing in time with my accelerated pulse.

What I don't understand is why I can't let it go.  I want to.  I really do.  I don't like feeling like this. But I can't.  It's like it's attached itself to my insides and is driving me in close marching formation toward the battlefield, and all I want to do is trip over my fallen comrades, cry for a little while, and look up and see the sunlight breaking through the clouds with a wry, wistful smile of wonder and healing on my face.

Yeah.  It so doesn't work that way.  So today I'm dealing with anger with too many adjectives and a hope that my poor keyboard recovers from the forceful strokes of my belligerent fingers.

Whenever I think about buying something brand new I always visualize what it will look like in five to seven years.  I think about rust and fading, scratches and oozing glue from unskilled but good intentioned repairs. What I discover in those thoughts sometimes makes me smile and sometimes makes me sad because I realize that I know I will love whatever it is more after time has left it's mark than I do now. There is a beauty in the damage.

I love damaged people too.  The pared down wisdom of someone who has been through tragedy draws me like the proverbial moth to a flame. I want to listen to the stories they are loathe to tell and bathe in the neurotic need to hide pain behind a smile or a laugh.  Undercurrents of experience line every word or artistic expression. There's something comfortable about damaged people.  A feeling of home.

Free Will

I once believed in perfect circles.  The universe turning slowly until we finally understand where we're going and why.  But only fate makes a perfect circle.  Free will is a wild, tangential comet spinning from the dust to impact the circle with choices that are not always our own.  Free will is both beautiful and tragic.

Just a tiny thought

Sometimes... when the pragmatic part of my brain takes over and I analyze my emotion I get a little nauseous.  I know it's not bad to feel things deeply, but I hate how it tears little pieces out of my soul.  Like Lord Voldemort.... only the good parts of me.  So that when Harry Potter discovers he's my horcrux he finds a piece of my laughter.

Happy Birthday to Me

I have had a bad attitude about Valentine's Day for many years, but it was never because of the actual concept of the day.  It was always because it interfered with my intense need to indulge in narcissism once a year.  The idea of a day solely observed as a celebration of love is actually a wonderful (if often bittersweet) tradition.  The anti-hallmark, anti-commercialism movement likes to go on and on about the negative aspects, but in reality.... it's kind of nice to hear people saying in public the things they usually reserve for quiet, intimate moments.