I couldn’t stop myself, really. Seems I never can.
And then there was the forty minutes of me raging in that voice which, I swear, does not sound like it belongs in Auckland (trust me, I just spent nearly half an hour listening very closely to people talk with those accents…the A’s are too sharp), but, at it’s worst, can growl and rip into things in a way that nobody who has heard me speak would ever suspect, and which I cannot help but wonder at. Maybe it’s because that is a show when I do it for other people. Put on that accent. Nobody would take my raging seriously if I did it that way, and knowing that, I wouldn’t be able to produce the sounds that make me think of the jagged edges you get when you cut a tin can with an hand-operated opener. And so nobody has ever heard that voice. Except myself.
It’s like the voice I use when she is talking to me. It’s was an accident, I swear, but apparently I trained myself to only ever talk that way to her, and have never been able to un-train myself. Maybe I should break out the accent next time and see what happens. I don’t think I have used it to talk to her in years.
But…so much rage.
I don’t think it’s possible for anyone who knows me to understand how angry I get and how hard it is to be angry, because I waste so much energy pushing it down and pushing it down and swallowing it and not letting it show and it metamorphoses from those flashes of hot anger, and becomes a quiet and ineffectual rage, and as the void did when I was dead, the feeling broils and roars and expands and, in the manner of all flames, consumes the thing that was Reeser.
It’s so hard to tighten up all the gaps the feeling could flicker through.
And I don’t veven know why I feel the anger. So many reasons come to mind, but still…there is a whisper of someplace cool and green that asks me why I can’t just let it go…and…I don’t know. I can’t.
I could benefit from having the opportunity to destroy something.