All my anger is always directed at Life – because it is born of the confusion that is the byproduct of this existence. The dissonance of merely being born into a place where you can experience both extreme joy, but also immense pain, never quite sits right in our consciousness. It drives us all at least a little bit mad. Why it is this way can be a cruel mystery that we all feel the pull of, at least from time to time. My anger is always toward that mystery. It is never toward a person, because if a person is cruel, it is because they were born into a world where cruelness was thrust upon them first and blinded them to how they could stop the cycle. It is that seeming unfairness that I furiously shake my fists at.
My war cry is released through the fabric of the universe, racing like electric wires through neural pathways of a mind so much larger than I. Because it comes from deep within the hollows of my existence, I send it straight to the only thing that could bare its force. Life itself is the only thing worthy of my anger. The architect must face its creation.
You are not the rightful owner of my anger, so I will not give it to you. My rage runs deep, but it never runs personal. We all fall victim to confusion over rules we were never responsible for making and rarely understand. None of us are at fault. No, my anger will be returned to its sender. I throw it back to the cosmos where it belongs, to keep my vision clear for possibilities in the here and now.
Let it be incinerated in the sun. Let it be frozen and shattered in the cold of the void. Space is the only thing that can absorb it. It cannot be recycled and there is no more terrain to keep it here. The landfills of our hearts are too full. We need room. We need to breathe. We need sunlight and oxygen to decompose the old, so we can finally find the beauty and peace of the new.