The Shackles of Anger

Chained in a dungeon deep under ground, kneeling in filth on a moss covered stone floor, I was restrained by rage. Wrought iron manacles clasped around my throat and wrists. They restrained thighs and ankles. I knelt there, knees raw, neck thick with vulgarity. Even in the black of my cell, my vision was crimson, infused with a fury I could not quench, control, or understand. Perhaps the shackles were the make of someone else, but I donned them, loathing the world every day.

Then one day a bird chirped, waking me from the peace of slumber, the only time internal tantrums did not fill me. I could see the sun, and it was warm on my face. The shackles were shed, scattered across the stones, and I was no longer restrained. I was freed on that morning when I walked out of the open cell. God be good, God be graceful, a cell I shall never return to, nor set eyes upon, again.

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One response to “The Shackles of Anger

  1. Four and quarter years ago my background rage generator shut down during what is best described now as a dream. I wrote about it in a blog that I thought had been deleted. I found the blog two hours ago. I read the post after spending 45 minutes writing and rewriting this reply. My perspective was different then than it is now. I did not understand what had happened and attributed it to the world I was in then.. I still don’t understand and I can’t report that I’ve changed a lot. I still get angry easily and the intensity is almost never justified, but between the times when I’m in touch with the core I can find a peace I hadn’t known since my early teens, since before my causal framework stopped trying to be a thing of brick and mortar and reverted back to its earlier more play dough like properties. My dream was surreal but it took place in a very much brick and mortar setting, the abbey church of a nearby Cistercian monastery where, for a while, I tried to experience community.

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