Revelation

Photo by Raimond Klavins on Unsplash

I don't get angry anymore.

I used to, but now I don't.

I used to scream -

white burning rage

would flash

to sear the darkness inside

when it became unbearable,

incompressible,

unspeakable.

Unspeakable.

the language of rage

is simple,

accessible.

it is a protest

against redundancies,

bad suppositions,

and familiar failure

of a million conversations

filling the bedrooms, the offices, the airwaves,

the car rides, the wherever-s.

Failure to say anything

to hear anything,

to soothe a wound,

to fill a vacancy,

to awaken a god from his slumber.

A larvae of flapping and un-flapping jaws

and tongues, stupefying,

growing larger by the second,

terrifying,

in its unbound nothingness

nothing-nothing-ness,

and then they say

there is such aching loneliness in the world.

Unbearable

to be painted in colors

that are not mine,

unbearable too

to be

in a permanent state of mutiny,

and discord

with those around.

What then?

I have bowed

to the brackets of existence,

the limitations of understanding one another,

failed expectations

now have passaged into

expected failures.

the edge of anger is softening,

perhaps we are supposed to know only ourselves,

and no other,

why should I be angry about that?