Rage

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It’s whats left. When you run out of hope. When you runout of despair. When you’re out of tears but not out of pain. A last ditch effort by your self to re-emerge. It’d a dark hope substitute. An endless yawning. Expressing the gulf between what you calculate to be your most ideal state and the way you are now.

Think of it as all the things you would change. If these could dig a hole and fill it with lava, that would be a great image for rage.

Depression gets all the attention. It’s such a diva. Always vacant and imitating death. But rage is what is past that. It’s the offensive version of depression. The luminous, voluminous and indisputable anti-depression.

Rage doesn’t mean you’re okay. But it’s a damn good likeness.

It’s evolutionary in origin. I find it too useful to be an accident. The gory trail of human development seems too horrible to not have spawned it as a defense. When the question was whether I should sulk in bed or get up and seethe at my circumstance, I chose the latter because of rage. Every moment I spent smoldering in the daylight, thinking of revenge was ultimately healthier than if I had spent that time lying prostrate on my bed pitying myself. The time outside showed me the blue sky. It showed me the life around me. It distracted me. The rage tricked me into accepting it as a more practical consolation prize. Bypassing the grand prize of depression.

The rage was motion. Good for my muscles. The rage was consumptive. Good for my appetite. It was addictive. Got my attention. It filled a hole. Good for level headedness.

I didn’t want to die when I was pissed off. I waned to win. I now realize that my mind probably used that as a trick to keep me alive. It worked. My gullibility kept me alive. My rage kept me awake. They both distracted me from the edge, the ledge, the precipice, the end. I’m not sure that I totally agree with how I was manipulated by my brain. But all I’m saying is that it worked. The proof is that I’m saying it. Ergo I’m not gone like the 8:00 a.m. train at 8:04 a.m.

I owe rage.

I attest to the propelling force of it.

Yet for all its uses, and in all its facets, I wonder, how do I get past it?

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