The Anger Speaks To Me

The Anger Speaks To Me The anger speaks to me of some long distant fear. I do not remember becoming angry, only that I am angry. The anger is hidden, or so I’d like to think, deep inside a vault alongside the fear. The fear provokes the anger and uses it to deflect its sense of defenselessness, its certain knowledge that there are demons in the mind that torture the soul and threaten the fragile peace. The fear does not understand that the anger cannot protect it from the demons, for the fear is of the demons, the presence of their past. The anger hides in hate, or so it claims, to hate this, and that, to hate them all. Who are they? And why such a heinous hatred toward them? Perhaps the demons have become the fear and the hate, have duped me once again into protecting them, concealing them in dark and painful places in my soul. It would be ironic if the fear and anger’s masquerade as hatred is their ultimate charade, their Fait Accompli, a psychic Trojan horse. Still the anger speaks to me, screams at me, belittles and berates me as a coward, giving me no peace, no solace from the hate the demons planted long ago and left to torture me, and all who came to know the anger, and to feel its wrath. The anger speaks to me and I am unable, or too fearful, not to answer. I have a sense that the last refuge of the demons is in the fear and anger, but I am afraid and I am angry and I hate it. John G. Lawless 2013