Wednesday, January 19, 2011
In Weakness And In Death I
I was always called weak. Weak in my studies, weak when it came to fighting, weak when it came to matters of the heart, weak when I was ill, weak when I wasn’t.
I would take solace the rage that surrounded me, kept me shielded, The anger from within, which I would soak myself in, in which I would drown in.
It was the rage that helped me ignore the fibres of my muscles flaring, and burning when blows were delivered upon me. It was rage that acted as an instant pain killer and gave the bones on my closed fists the power to hit harder, hit again.
It was the anger, the will to prove to people how strong I really was, that finally swallowed me whole.
If I look back, almost every moment of triumph was probably because of the latent anger that crawled underneath my skin.
They never tell you or teach you how to express yourself properly. A small child can yell, scream and shout or stomp when it feels angry. They can cry when they feel bad. They can smile when they’re happy.
But as we grow older, it gets worse.
You don’t express yourself anymore. If you do it’s through other mediums that can never match up to yelling, punching, choking or stabbing, ‘civil’ behavior that counters primal instinct.
It’s easier for the creative kinds to express themselves. One painting here, a song there, a poem every now and then. But for idiots like me who con themselves into believing they’re geniuses it’s a different ball game altogether. Our frustration to express ourselves in ‘healthy’ ways leads us to no option but to escape.
Until that one spark that ignites a fire within that cannot be controlled.
The media labeled me a murderer. A cold blooded killer. An animal. A monster. Group discussions and debates followed for the entire next week on primetime. Psychiatrists, psychologists, teachers, parents….everyone had something to say. I had become a household name. For all the wrong reasons.
My character was assassinated.My family's self respect violated. Every incident that remotely sounded like it could raise an alarm bell was brought about. Things that had nothing to with me were brought up.
At first people couldn’t believe it was me. The weakling. The one who never had any serious problems. The quiet one. The one who fed stray dogs and cats and gave them shelter.
But then people changed color.
Labels: Rumble Ramble