I write these stupid words and I love every one

As I awake more and more from this self-imposed slumber that I feel I've subjected myself to for the last... ooh I dunno... two, three, six years I've been feeling more and more rage. It's bubbling under my skin and looking for somewhere to vent. Creeping around my veins and through my lungs, reaching down into my fingers and toes and making me involuntarily flex my fists and feet whilst I sit stuck fast in front of a computer screen looking to all the world like someone who isn't about to spontaneously combust through pure, unadulterated anger at any given second. The rage has been simmering for a while. It's sat there in a pool in my tummy like an alien life force. Incubated and undetected. Waiting for the right time to burst forth and fuck some shit up. The issue I'm having, is what shit exactly should I be fucking up? How do I direct this to utilise the power it contains to most benefit me? Anger is so vitally important but thanks to our Victorian era legacy we're left with an inability to confront it as an emotion. Turn the other cheek, stiff upper lip, etc etc , where's the saying that helps us to deal with it all and fuck shit up? (But usefully).

I've been nurturing the anger the last couple of days by listening to dirty angry sexy music like Jon Spencer Blues Explosion live albums and choice Yeah Yeah Yeahs outpourings and having fights with people in my head. Intriguingly this tends to take place whilst driving along which is really doing noone any favours (today I managed to somehow escape about 4 seperate near-misses where I was concentrating too hard on the imaginery argument and not hard enough on the road ahead, and, more importantly, what the cars in front of me were doing on the road ahead). I was able to sit at my desk at work today and get completely lost in what I was doing (not all of it work-related one admits but I have made a rather splendid spreadsheet to help with the organisation of my upcoming Europe travails (give me some mildly complex stuff to use sums and cell formatting on and I'll be happy as a Hindu cow for hours). But when that was over I went back to thinking and to imaginary arguments and thus returned the rage. This thing that is invading every pore to the point that writing about it now is making me a little breathless. Adrenaline is pumping and I've nowhere to channel it.

Although I think of rage as beneficial I'm not a big fan of it as a general rule. It doesn't suit my middle-class sensibilities, my desire to pretend like things don't affect me so that no-one can ever know that their shit gets to me - put a brave face on, pretend like you're not affected. You're tough, you're strong, you're better than this shit. I feel like expressing rage is expressing vulnerability; they've won. They've got to you. They've done what they wanted to do.

... And that's where I left that blog. I sat down and I wrote all of that and I felt all of it so vividly. And now it's gone. The rage lifted as quickly as it had descended. But it still must be there. It can't have been magicked away. So that's why I write all these stupid words and that's why I love every one; the times when I don't know what I think or how I feel are too numerous too count but when I do have a sense of clarity then the tangible evidence is there. Yes, you felt this. Yes, it was valid. Now move on.

So I will.