To burn down to ash. To say all, to run out of breath, to lose all reason to exist. Kneeling over the smouldering cinders of my former self, I ask in disbelief, how it was possible. Never before did I look so coldly at my own arms, incapable of shaping the world into my image. Never before did I admit so profoundly that I feel nothing, no love for anyone, not even for myself.
I had died many times before, but not like this. It was not drowning, it was not a knife to the heart, it was not even the cunning poison. It was the fire of Anger.
A mind gone mad with wrath, tearing down the shackles of reason. Beautifully unaware of its own mortality, blind to its apparent weakness, ready to fight, tooth and nail. To punish those who angered it, no cost is too great, and can there be a greater reward? The promise of Revenge and Retribution. Yes, anger is inviting, anger is attractive, anger is precious.
But its thick black smoke is weakness, the desperation of the hopeless. Its breath is failure and misguided blame. To watch a man reduced to his lowest self – a pitiful display, disturbed at last from his pretence. Shame – to have conceded power to those who angered him, to those who finally exposed the soft skin underneath his scales. Strange – to have played their game without knowing the rules. Unexplicable – to have trusted a thief with the house of one’s wellbeing.
To make a fool of one’s self.