The rage

Yesterday afternoon, I felt the rage coming back.

It hadn’t visited me for years, but I knew all too well of the feeling of it swelling inside my chest.

I was holding a mug in my hand, walking to the table where we put our used eating utensils.

The rage came and told me to hurl it across the room.

I knew it would be satisfied if the mug smashed into pieces.

But I stopped myself in the name of acceptable behaviour. I approached the table and put the mug on it ever so gently.

Again I managed to prevent the rage from taking control of me, but it would just go back to its lurking place somewhere deep inside.

And from there, it would wait, grinning, like it had always been.


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