The house guest I just discovered hiding in my closet

The rage, the RAGE.
God so much rage.

It’s bewildering to me. What is it about the act of written expression that elicits such unfamiliar rage?

I’m a relatively happy guy. I meander my way through each day with a clownish smile while avoiding self-important descent into the staid routines that rule my corporate existence. I’m not bitter. I don’t hate anything.

People are fond of asking, in general terms, if you’ve ever been so angry you could have murdered. Ever been asked that? It’s a strange ethereal theoretical situation posed as mind exercise. I get it bounced my way once in a while. I think it’s kind of weird. Most people say yes.
Yes! Angry fire jettisons from their eyes as they recount the incident, the moment, when they could have murdered. Reliving the moment, it seems murder is possible again. Never mind the fact that they didn’t, or couldn’t, murder. Why do people enjoy “boasting” they are capable of murder when in fact I suspect they are just flapping their lips dramatically and valiantly?

When the question is posed to me I answer “no.”
No. I’ve never been in a situation in which I felt capable of murder.
I don’t posses that bottomless depth of anger. Nothing of that sort courses through my veins.

I am a mellow waffle. Mr. Cool.
But put me in front of this blog, in front of a blank post page, and you best take cover.
The beast is unleashed.

So maybe I really do have the rage?
Why do I avoid confronting it?
Obviously if rage is capable of issuing hellishly from my fingertips, it must live somewhere in this dark soul of mine. Am I deluding myself?

Rage is a distracting and wasteful emotion. Nothing comes of rage, except more rage. And destruction.
Rage is a megadose of anger for the sake of anger only.
Rage is ego-driven. It is a contrivance we whip up in order to embellish hurt or frustration.
I’ve noticed that my rage posts on this blog usually happen to represent some of my better and intense writing. It’s the times I can’t summon rage that I feel as if my writing is bland and forced.

I see a lot of rage in the blogosphere.

This brand of blogospheric rage is fed by a mixture of anonymity and unrestrained public expression. It’s easy to speak strongly and emotionally when the object of your frustration is nameless or bodiless. It’s too easy to exclaim and generalize and cast a whole swath of people into the same despicable boat. God forbid that they actually come to life and stare you back from behind the safety of your computer screen.

Where would the rage go then?

It’s disconcerting to me that I may be the owner of all this rage and not know it.
Now that I think about it, I notice that in real life much of my humor tends be be cutting, cynical and bleak.

By golly.

There is rage in this heart of mine.

I walk a fine line between light-heartedness and subdued malevolence. Thing is, I’m not a complainer or a whiner…in fact, I’m one of those sickening “glass is half full” kind of guys. But. Rage peeks out, doesn’t it? It doesn’t just peek out, it jumps out and does a tap dance right on the tip of my nose. How can I not see it?

The average blog is a great psychological tool for providing a magnification into the owner’s mind and soul. Blogs are basically a Rorschach test expressed verbally. If you read a person’s blog carefully, analyze it, map it…you will discover who that person is. Really is.

Rage lives.
Has lived under my roof all this time…