Noise

Rage. That unshakable anger that drives me and hinders me, that defines most of what I do, and condemns those things in which I fail. It came to me at an early age, for no apparent reason. I found myself angry at everything, everyone, even those I had no need to be angry at. I was raised in a good home, with good parents. Spent quite a bit of my teenage years angry at them for no real reason, maybe simple rebellion. Anger at any who attempted to control me became a regular feature of my psyche. I was brought up to be a preacher, a Baptist man of the cloth, and yet all my sermons were angry condemnation against the falsehoods and hypocrisy in the modern church. And they loved it. Why is it when you look someone in the eyes and tell them they're worthless, that everything they do is wrong, that the way they treat people is evil, why is it that they smile and applaud and agree. Anger.

I'm off track. My rage became what defined me. I fought. My classmates, random idiots. I'd fight a tree if there was no one else. I carry the scars on my knuckles from that very thing. The blood lust of my ancestors ran strong in my veins, still does. Not lust for the kill, but lust for the feeling of dancing on the edge. You and another, locked in a conflict that could leave you or him destroyed. The rush... there's nothing quite like it. I lived for it for a few years.

Then I met my wife, God bless her. She was everything to me. She had more reason to be damaged than me. Divorced parents, bad home life at a young age, terrible string of awful men as boyfriends. And I loved every broken splintered piece of her. Still do. She didn't approve of my fighting, not because she was a pacifist or anything, but because she saw who I was when the blood lust reigned in my eyes. When the rage in my skull flowed down into my fists and forced them through walls and blocks. Because of her, I stopped fighting. Bottled the rage as best as I could and moved on.

Then my father passed. He was my best friend, my confidant, and my mentor. Rage locked down again. My anger made me almost incapable of even the simplest sympathetic gestures towards my family. So I learned to fake empathy and a sad peace during the most turbulent part of my life. I've never been good at sorrow. Rage I get, it accomplishes things, but sorrow... it just saps the will to do anything, to be anything. That's when the buzzing started.

A feeling behind my eyes. Like a hive of bees in the frontal lobes of my brain. As I type this I feel it, even now. Perhaps it is simply a placebo, something that only truly happens when I think of it. Whatever it is, I am bothered by it.

My mind, after so much time of bottling rage, became good at it. It is a fortress. The only feelings I allow to escape are ones I wish to let free. Rage comes when I call, and leaves when I wish it to. I fear that the buzzing is cracks in the mental wall. I fear one day that the rage will break out, all my locks and walls and chains will have disappeared and I won't be able to stop it.

Rage. What a lovely emotion.