Writing My Rage
searching for my very own road map to peace.
writing my rage. an etymology; an encyclopedia, a complete history. where does it come from...it's like a virus that lie dormant and comes out only at certain times.
it's not about other people or things or events. if it was, those people, places, or events would trigger the identical response in everyone.
i often feel that when someone else hurts me, they "deserve" to be hurt back. where does this come from? is it true? fair? just? right? well, it's never right to hurt someone else, but the rage in me says it is ok if they hurt you. but not everyone responds in the same way. when some people are hurt, they slink off into a corner and don't come out for awhile. others, like me, go on the offensive.
but that's not true, either. sometimes, when i'm hurt, i disappear into my own world for awhile and don't want to talk to anyone. so what makes the difference between hurt and anger?
i'm worried because my laptop gets hot quickly and i use it a lot. i don't want the insulation or cooling mechanism to wear out, especially since i don't have my data backed up--oops--or an extended warranty.
my spelling has gone from excellent to ok to marginal. i guess aging plus bipolar equals decreased spelling quality.
i am writing in the dark, the way katharine clifton did when she wrote her last note to almasy in "The English Patient":
[My darling. I'm waiting for you. How long is the day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone, and I'm horribly cold. I really should drag myself outside but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings, not writing these words.
We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we've entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in - like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. Where the real countries are. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men.
I know you'll come carry me out to the Palace of Winds. That's what I've wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out and I'm writing in the darkness...]
[IMDB]
i look up too far to others or down too low. ralph fiennes makes the words come alive in the film; reading a script online is so disappointing compared to the movie.
my own road map to peace; drawn on my own body so i'll never get lost again?
writing my rage. an etymology; an encyclopedia, a complete history. where does it come from...it's like a virus that lie dormant and comes out only at certain times.
it's not about other people or things or events. if it was, those people, places, or events would trigger the identical response in everyone.
i often feel that when someone else hurts me, they "deserve" to be hurt back. where does this come from? is it true? fair? just? right? well, it's never right to hurt someone else, but the rage in me says it is ok if they hurt you. but not everyone responds in the same way. when some people are hurt, they slink off into a corner and don't come out for awhile. others, like me, go on the offensive.
but that's not true, either. sometimes, when i'm hurt, i disappear into my own world for awhile and don't want to talk to anyone. so what makes the difference between hurt and anger?
i'm worried because my laptop gets hot quickly and i use it a lot. i don't want the insulation or cooling mechanism to wear out, especially since i don't have my data backed up--oops--or an extended warranty.
my spelling has gone from excellent to ok to marginal. i guess aging plus bipolar equals decreased spelling quality.
i am writing in the dark, the way katharine clifton did when she wrote her last note to almasy in "The English Patient":
[My darling. I'm waiting for you. How long is the day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone, and I'm horribly cold. I really should drag myself outside but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings, not writing these words.
We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we've entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in - like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. Where the real countries are. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men.
I know you'll come carry me out to the Palace of Winds. That's what I've wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out and I'm writing in the darkness...]
[IMDB]
i look up too far to others or down too low. ralph fiennes makes the words come alive in the film; reading a script online is so disappointing compared to the movie.
my own road map to peace; drawn on my own body so i'll never get lost again?
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