(no subject)

Anger is terribly seductive, particularly the varieties of righteous indignation. Some people react to anger the way they do to falling in love. They think of nothing but the object of their affect. They savor every nuance of their emotion like a grand feast of delectable morsels. They nurture their feelings like a spring garden, sparing no effort and little expense in making it grow lushly, luxuriantly.

Other people are afraid of their anger. They repress it, deny that they ever felt it, pretend to have nothing but happy fluffy bunny feelings for the whole world around them. Sometimes they admit to sadness over the misery in the world, but never anger.

I am not afraid to admit my anger. At the moment, I'm afraid of how unafraid I am of my anger. I have been seething with rage at any number of things. Some of the anger is perfectly justified, of course; perhaps most of it is. But I have never wanted to be one of those people who nurture their anger 'til it grows into hatred, and I have been in danger of becoming one this week. This descent into mad fury must stop. I have far better things to do with this energy.

God help me, I don't think I can last another night without sleep. I pray that I can do something productive tomorrow.