Outrageous Raves

I doubt the opposite of bliss could be hate, for bliss blinds synaptic and fast-fades ephemeral, as if it too soon had never been. Hate broods and breeds festers and feeds on past angry memories fading forward future fears of empty echoing hot flowing paranoia feasting on should have beens, could have becomes, if not for ruinous mortality. In life's end, defeat, in our beginning, terror of relentless terror. No, I sense the opposite of bliss is rage, blindingly synaptic, fading back to slow-burning distrust of life's long-suffering challenges, anthro on anthro. At least, I cannot recall rage against the weather, or mosquitoes, or even swarming bees. Rage, contrasted to more generic angry fear-filled panic, overpowers even Earth's transpeciating terrors then fades back as if it had never been any more than hyperactive mistrust, unsafely harbored in swarming seas of dissonant stress. Blissful rave through hateful rage, Earth's vast embodied stage for feelings flowing like light and dark clouds before sun and star light's constant transparent witness, waiting for emotive multicultures to learn full-octaved harmonics, like midway infants learning which operatic brights bring bliss which bring rage and what will outrageously radical raves feel like to timelessly sustain, living full-stretched balance.