Today, I was mad.
Twice actually. The first was a simple simmering: a defensive reaction to an unpleasant situation. It lent itself to smart remarks and sarcasm with just a bit of bite to it, and although it was fun, it wasn't superbly satisfying and left me unsettled in the end. Yet it left no scarring marks in its swift departure.
The second was the return of an old friend. Again an unpleasant situation with no one to blame, but as the conversation drew on my will to protect myself grew, and fire grew with it. In all fairness, there was no fault. We were operating under different assumptions. Under his, I was wrong. Under mine, he was. And with neither taking on the assumptions of the other, no progress was made, as is to be expected. I appreciate his attempt to rectify what he sees as a problem, as I hope (but do not believe) that he is grateful for my attempt to demonstrate that the problem lies elsewhere.
The point of this post is not the discussion, but the walk home. On a chilly fall night, the light wind slipped through my jacket, but I could not feel it. I was warm. My core was alight in defense of self, and nothing could dampen it. My veins coursed with glowing heat, and my brain buzzed with a taste of invincibility. Could such a feeling lend itself to trouble? Most certainly. It has many a time in my past. But now I see that I was blaming the wrong sentiment. Anger is most certainly my friend, one of my truest. It sticks by me no matter the rationality. It maintains the belief that I am not only worthwhile, I am fantastic, and with head held high challenges all naysayers to defy it.
The true culprit is impulse. However, impulse isn't always bad. As it is, impulse relies heavily on luck, and thus it has a fickle success rate. When tied to any powerful emotion, it considers greater risk. While the reward could potentially be great, the loss that often follows is devastating. As a child, impulse control is feeble, but as we grow, we learn to better rein in our instant desires. As an adult of sorts, I can welcome the presence of emotions and of impulse, trusting myself to handle them well.
Maybe this means I am not as good of a person anymore. That I have withdrawn myself from the porcelain man I have revered: he who is kind and calm in all things, is slow to judge and quick to assist, strength combined with meekness, the daring soul with a heart of gold.
I have given up on seeking that kind of perfection. Instead I live in reality, where I am flawed, and there are many things I cannot do, or at least cannot do well. Where I will not rise to immeasurable success because of my inabilities. Where some will dislike me. Some will not care about me at all. Where there is no escape from the harshness of how things are.
Surprisingly, I've found myself happier now than I have ever been.
Welcome back, Fury. I've missed you.
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