There is joy here. And supreme, ridiculous, riddling frustration.
Clearly, there are no easy answers. Just the work.
This unnameable, formidable anger wells up from somewhere that I cannot communicate with. I cannot reason with these things. I know that I cannot focus this anger inward, as I am so adept at doing, but I must take it out and look at it for what it is.
The tricky part is not to take it out on the ones that are closest to me. Or try to sleep, eat, drink or will it all away. My anger and I need to get to know one another so that we can forge an amicable agreement on a disentanglement policy. Welcome to my consciousness, my old friend. Don't get too comfortable. We've been together for a long time, but I don't think things are really working out between us. Frankly, you're just getting in my way.
How can I put this delicately? Get the fuck out. You're ruining my bloom.
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