Anger - DIARY ENTRY

Photo taken in Italy last Summer

Sometimes, I wish I could feel more anger. This would be helpful to me, now. Anger is wild and fierce. Anger is a bear, poked by a stick. Anger is power and freedom and strength. I cannot muster strength.

Instead I feel a lack. An empty where the anger should be. But it does not stay empty for long. Other, more familiar emotions soon fill it. And there is no longer the room for fierce.

I feel despair at my hands. Angry hands are tense; they curl inwards to form red, clammy fists, that burn with temptation. My hands are cold and soft. They lie, limp and aspirationless on my desk.

There is no freedom in observation. The observed is in control and you watch time play out, contributing nothing.  I wonder if this is all I will ever be. It is difficult to tell a story without a voice.