Anger has, for as long as I can remember, been my constant companion. Not righteous wrath, rarely blind rage. Early in life I made it a friend. It drives me more often than not to do the right thing. On occasion when I have been lolling on the fence, it shook my shoulder and hauled me off it. It made me take a stand, again and again ad infinitum, sometimes ad nauseum. Tiresome friend. But always true. All things considered I wouldn’t have it any other way. I used it to get things done, and I’d like to think to make them better, instead of just ranting vacuously.

The trouble with that vast reservoir of anger is that it can breach the dam of control and prudence. I was 18 when it happened for the first time. I still remember his eyes when in fury I broke his arm coldly and deliberately. It is of no consequence that I thought him trash. His eyes held shock and terror, a wounded mirror reflecting a demon. I still remember his eyes. I filled the breach and fortified the dam. And for 35 years it held true and anger, my friend, walked with me holding me up when I faltered like nothing and no one else has. For 35 years. A blinding red mist descended one evening that again made me want to maim and hurt, only this time I pulled back. A memory bound me. I still remember his eyes and a demon that stared back from a scabbed mirror.

The picture on top of this post holds words that I wrote that might perhaps be lyric; jittery, broken, and uncomfortable. What it is to me is both catharsis and an obdurate bar that I hope will tell me “You shall not pass into the void”. I’d rather have this than the horror mirror of his eyes.

And my oldest friend, anger, still walks with me wreathed in its flickering swirl. Till death draw us apart.