"The sound of shattering glass interrupted the normal tranquil household. Somewhere there were children laughing in the sunlight, but here, this place, was the eye of the storm. The momentary calm that was almost too eerie to be synthetic was over. Destruction now took her turn upon the wretched soul that saw herself reflect different times in the jagged pieces of metal. Sixteen eyes stared at her, judging her with their fierceness. She slammed her hand against the judges. They fell from their fixtures, one by one, and shattered into a million different pieces each. The eyes, mingled with scarlet, stared at her with more force. She grabbed at the strands of hair hanging around her ears and pulled. The scarlet on the floor began to dilute, but the eyes were unsympathetic.She screamed in agony, falling to her knees in the jagged pit of her destruction. She did not care about the pain. Pain was a feeling for the weak, she mentally smacked herself. In war, you could never show fear. The small stream of sunlight allowing the eyes to stare at her disappeared and she was left to sit isolated, tears the only things left to comfort her. She put her head down on her knees, wishing it to all go away. She shivered in the shadows, another eeriely authentic calm falling over her."
--Me
I wrote that years ago, and yet it still applies. I feel this undercurrent of anger flowing through me, though like a guard dog, the worryless fool keeps it under wraps. She is too afraid to let anyone see anything that the world is not ready for. Is the world ready for my anger? What would happen if the dark side of me suddenly broke free and ran amok? I�m not sure if I would feel any better because the first thing the �little� girl would do, would be to murder the shallow fool that has been ruling over our shell. Though what she doesn�t realize is that she needs the fool, for she is the one who is able to communicate with the world. Is it possible for the two distinct me�s to live in peace?
I feel the anger well up inside me. The hidden one smiles because she knows that the more anger I, we, feel, the better the chances she will escape in a fit of passion. Every moment of pain I feel, she relishes. Every experience of anger or hurt I feel, she laughs. She knows that the anger boiling inside me is gestating like a little baby; only this baby is capable of nuclear explosions. I feel her move deep inside me, restless that she has spent most of the night hidden. She is jealous that the worryless fool has experienced so much interaction today. The anger flows like hot lava, pooling at my ankles. Like cement, it paralyzes my legs forcing me to endure its presence when all I want to do is run away.
But no one ever learns by running away.
Maybe this is why I�m afraid all the time.
J
