Anger flows through me. It's rapid and unstoppable. Savage waves of strong emotion perform furious tosses and turns inside me. They are maddening, and yet still majestic. I can't take them out. They will take over me and I wont be able to do anything about it. They can't transform into tears; I'm too angry. Ragging flames can't turn into water. Oh my, what shall I do? My fingers twitch nervously trying to find a solution. My hands know it before my brain can process it and I grab a nearby pen.
I grab the aching pencil and a poor notebook that was there at the wrong time. My victims are waiting to be messengers of my dilemmas. Writing tool in hand, I fiercely attack the innocent paper. Rage pours from my soul to my hand and through the pen, to end up in the form of not-so-neatly-written letters. Words start to take form, and later on, sentences. Those sentences are screaming so loud but they are silenced, trapped in the sheet of paper. My words are are charged with everything that once was in inside me, poisoning me and my objective view of life. Words flow from my fingers in fast, impatient movements. I'm anxious, but it will be over soon.
I stop. It's all out. Now that all of that, all my frustration, is all in the ink-marked paper. It looks at me in disgust, as the inky traces try to make their way out of the paper. They liked it better here. They had a more audible voice, they think? Not so true.
Every ounce of negativity has now left me and I'm exhausted but happy.
I relax and fall into the mattress of my comfy bed in the soundless night, and smile to myself.
My angry thoughts (turned into words) are shouting at me from the floor, where I left them, I can't help to laugh at the sight.
I sigh contentedly and drift off to a dreamless, unperturbed sleep.
Detached form my pessimism.
*Happy.