Sometimes people anger me. I am not such a narcissist as to believe I am unique in this; however, in my case anger carries great risk. Anger is precipitous; it moves one towards actions one might otherwise never consider. Furthermore, anger is a relatively uncommon trait for me lo these past several centuries, particularly anger with individuals. I suspect that anger of that sort is partly rooted in expectations: when an individual disappoints, anger can come more readily to the fore.

I am not an easy person to disappoint. I tend to gather the measure of those I meet quickly and fully so that I am well aware of what I may and may not expect from them. Should I seek more than some person is truly able to deliver on some personal level, well, the fault is then mine, is it not? If I am to take the position that I know people so well, it seems to follow that I should know better than to expect greatness from the mundane, romance from the stoic, honesty from the base, or brilliance from the dull. You are what your genes and your lives fashion you to be and it would be passing strange were you all shaped to meet my hopes and needs.

Why did I murder Clayton? Make no mistake; it was murder, for that episode need never have come to pass. He was no threat to me, nor was he my responsibility to contain. He was nothing. Why did he anger me so?

Corollary to that, why have I at times become so angry with humanity as a whole that I would lash out indiscriminately? For I have done so in the past, and I have come close at other times as well.

I have made passing mention, mostly in comments, that I might take to pruning the vile from the tree of humanity. I implied I might view such as sport. The most difficult thing for me to face is that this is truly how I feel… when I am angry. This forces me to view anger as a dangerous indulgence and now, more so than at any other time in my existence, I seek to maintain a level of calm detachment. I succeeded in this to a fairly substantial degree by keeping the outside world at arm’s length.

Needless to say, I now find myself in a terribly dangerous place. When I began this experiment I approached it as a method of sampling but a dram of the world outside my protected little bubble, doing so in relative anonymity and at little to no personal cost. In a mere eighteen months my life has been transformed from that steady state where all things outside are of minute meaning and negligible impact into a maelstrom of confession, revelation and terrible, wrenching doubt. Nearly every day I find myself tied down further and further, my freedom to act constrained by my attachments to people who are at worst ephemeral and at best destined to leave my side in a heartbreakingly short time.

I should end this. When I take stock of my situation, weighing the pros and cons, that is always the conclusion I reach. Were I to walk away now I could count all I have done towards the good and the small harm my leaving might inflict would be of little consequence. I cannot escape the notion that all of this, this journal, the house, Edna- all are a mere manifestation of some arrogant selfishness and foolish self-deception. Those are fearful thoughts, moving me towards a familiar and comfortable conclusion, the very same conclusion that drove me from this place over one hundred and fifty years ago. I hold that fear at bay by sheer force of will, choosing action over contemplation, engagement over isolation, and hope over anger.

I do not expect any who read this to understand. All of this, all my plans and maneuverings, they amount to little more than a desperate ploy. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, striding out in to the Bolivian sunshine to meet their fate; they would comprehend my actions implicitly. Others must surely be confused; a product of their times, where the world obeys Laws and the nature of reality is laid out in terms both repeatable and expandable. I am not such as you- my world has so long been one of superstition, suspicion, and raw trepidation that I sometimes despair of it being else. My rational mind embraces the modern, but everything I know of people and power tells me I should fear, and fear greatly.

Hope is my only shield against such fear. With any luck these days mark my ascent to freedom and acceptance, but that darker, more rational part of me fears I have merely set the stage for great and terrible acts to follow.

Posted on July 4th, 2004 by Zsallia
Filed under: Miscellany