There are the things I cannot say. Thoughts that grow in those dark parts of my mind, the places I can’t talk about. It’s almost like they come from someone else. But, they taste so very very good. Sometimes, in that liminal space between control and freedom they slip out into the world of sound, eliciting shock and hurt, but also an electric pleasure.
It’s rage, certainly, but what happens when you silence that rage for too long…. You suppress it and suppress it and eventually it just stops knocking. Stops roiling at the never ending whining and bitching and criticizing, the thousand little injustices you face everyday. Instead blooming, deadly as any nightshade, into something completely distinct living within you. There’s power in that rage, tremendous power. Only you have to be at home in the darkness to be able to use it. Sometimes, in that hedge crossing between waking and dreaming, I see her. The child of my silenced rage. I wonder what she does while I sleep.