I have a lot of old rage in me. Old guilt, old hurt, old bitterness and remorse. Old hatred. I'd thought it was gone, thought I was healed. Thought that that part of my life was over.

But it's there, nesting, crusting over with age, eroding into my soul, balled up and waiting for something like last night to happen. A moment within a moment, an eye flits across the room to meet another eye, a familiar eye. An eye that, one day, I hope rots in hell. An eye that, if hell does not exist, I hope God invents it in time just to swallow it up, keep it safe away from everyone else.

That's the kind of rage I have. And I don't nurse it anymore, don't feed it with fantasies and heightened emotion. But it's there, dry and cracked, stuck to the throbbing walls of my heart.

Still waiting for Time to do its magic.

ink :: graphite