Seething words, enraged, hands shaking—a dormant volcano from deep within had decided to blow up a few weeks ago. I could barely recover from my own anger these days.
Lately, people have been affected by my rage.
I have yet to learn the art of command, of how I could manage to unspiral the situation with mere words and the occasional firm glances. I confess that, somehow, being angry—with mad eyes, heightened voice, scathing words and all—feels liberating. There is satisfaction when my tongue turns sharp and I, its wielder, strikes true toward the heart of the poor fellow, leaving a wound unseen, yet reverberating.
Take the chill pill, Jay. Take the chill pill.