Today I am angry. Angry and frustrated. Not at anyone in particular although I am sure I could quite easily pass the blame to a number of people. Today I’m angry at frustration. I’m angry at the chaos and mess that surrounds me. I’m angry at the mundane monotony of domestic life, the infinite cycle of chores that daily living produces. I’m angry at all the stuff that clutters my life. I’m angry that I don’t get up earlier. I’m angry that I don’t go to bed earlier. I’m angry that my laptop took such a ridiculously long time to start up when all I wanted to do was type away my frustration. Am I allowed to be angry? A fiery motivator of raging productivity. It burned in my chest as I blustered about the house, piling dry clean washing in a heap, flapping freshly washed damp clothes and pegging them securely on the drying rack, mopping the window condensation up with forceful speed and wringing out the rag until its worn threads almost tore. All while a hot headed monologue stomped through my thoughts. It surprises me how cathartic this art of writing can be. Much of the boiling ferocity seems to have drained away through my fingertips. Leaving only the smallest fraction of temper behind, allowing crisp air to flow into the now empty chest cavity through steady slow breaths. That was my silent rage.
Photo by Waldemar Brandt on Unsplash
