Elements...fire, water, earth, air?

Anger is a cruel master.

The burn of it in your stomach, churning like lust and sour as betrayal in the back of your throat only goads on the flames and red vision. Flashes and sparks of violence that ripple like lightning, electrical charges in your muscles urging you to tear and break.

What keeps that energy in check? What prevents the primal rage and scream and roar from tearing out of your chest like the hand of a demon?

What stops you? Humanity? Society? Perception?

A cricket?

Is there ever the excuse?

Of course there is.

Being a Lycan.

Too bad the wild freedom of a half animal life is not real. Can you image, though, the feeling of wind rushing down your back and sides as land flies away under your paws, racing down the hill in the fresh grass. There is the musky scent of deer before you and you have your pack at your back, helping you separate, corner and kill the weak and the old and the slow? You strengthen the deer as they strengthen you.

Can you imagine that first crushing blow on its spine, the crunch and the blood? Fresh and warm the meat of the deer. A howl of praise and thanks would push its way out of you. A howl to your pack, to your land, to your god. A howl as wild and beautiful as a mermaid's eyes.

The freedom to be wild. The freedom to be strong. The freedom to howl at the moon. The freedom to feel a surge of angry fire and direct it with the lithe and limber body of the wolf.


What a glorious sight. That proud, howling wolf, with bloodied maw and fresh kill, basking in the glow of the sun and singing praises and thanks.

That must be a prayer, the howl...

The Wild Wild ....West?

I listen to the same songs over and over, focusing on the feelings they send charging though me.

I avoid the sunlight some days and other days relish the warmth of its gold rays.

I love and love and love and I die in the same breath.

I don't think there is anything quite as personal as the swift breath that burns your throat and your nose in the freezing winter air while you stare out across your neighbor hood and realize that the snow has stifled everything and for once, for once in your adult life, something is pure and clean again.

There is little to help my ever increasingly morose and angry mood except for the small silvery glimmer of freedom. A taste of its sweet flavor last week sent my head reeling and I cannot believe that I gave it up.

My first wish is still true. I must get as far away as I possibly can before things get worse. Things must not degrade anymore and my backpedaling isn't working...I'm facing the wrong direction.


again...

Harpy

I don't think that there is nearly enough satisfaction in my life. Late mornings from late nights never go uninterrupted and deferred to things I don't want to do.

Peace and solace can hardly be found here, where my anger seeps into the blue walls of my room and steeps the air like a tea. It is a closed mouth, sown lips type of anger, where it burns and boils beneath the skin, contained like a source of magical energy, humming and writhing under its binds.

Moods shift only after reading and reading, audible words do nothing anymore to assuage the contempt I am feeling for all. Can such hatred be anything other than a dangerous poison?

What can be done, what should be done?

There is nothing more than what I have said, and yet, there are worlds out there...



Asimov was right.

Freaking Yes

Everything about this makes perfect sense, from the well rounded plums to the all seeing eyes of the Pikachu plushie. There is no wrong. There is no right. There just IS.

I am. Always.

Perhaps.