I’m so angry.
I’m normally not an angry person. But this time is different. I can feel this powerful current of rage just building inside my blood stream, but instead of motivating me to run, jump, shout, or hate, it’s made me complacent and lazy. Yes, while normal people have rages, I just lay on my bed for hours. That’s how you know I’m angry.
I rage against the injustice of the world. You work so hard and yet it seems you can’t get anywhere. You’re stuck in the powerful washing machine cycle of life that runs over and over again; if you try to change your fate, you’re ripped apart. I rage against the selfishness of people. When people need you, they seek you. When they don’t, they dump you in some back corner. When they’re again alone, they seek you again. I rage against how the shift in balance is always towards evil. Everyone seems to be agents working against the good in the world. Anything beautiful is snuffed out and stomped into the dirt.
I rage against lethargy. As hypocritical as that sounds, since when I’m angry I’m lazy as well, I’m mad at those who can’t stand up for themselves, me included. I rage against feelings that never seem to be tangible, and how you always have to be distrustful about feelings.
Most of all, I rage against myself. Because I embody all of these things that I rage against, and I can’t help but be who I am.