I have come to realise that anger is a little like a bag of marbles. You shake the bag, sometimes even move it a tiny bit and all the marbles clash together. Colour over colour and voice over voice. They clash until that can clash no longer, the colour drains and you’re wondering why you ever shook the bag in the first place.
We are all very angry. Anger stains the grains of our faces. Rips through our mouths and hearts and brain. We are angry, we are an angry world. At our friends, our politics, our family. And today, milk was the thing that shook the bag a little. Caused tensed backs to slump, vacant eyes to alight, lonely minds to wake, at the sound of a shaking. Because somebody had forgotten the milk.
But it is more, the thing about the bag of marbles is not just it being shaken. It is its contents, its absolute fragility, its strained back and rigid core, its unspoken works and barren mind, that is sensitive to the touch. It is that, they did not listen. That they had been tense all day. That they had expected more, some sort of attempt at perfection. That they had just wanted one day, and then everybody ended up screaming. Screaming through the pain in their backs and eyes, unanswered pain, horrible pain. And then they forgot the milk.
Its is that anger, that fragile disease, that then courses through each and every body. A bitter silence with bitter air. And I swear to myself, that one day I will effervesce into the sky. Into words, and a day that my back is not strained, over milk, or marbles, or some deep matter. That the world we be a little prettier, that anger, this dark ruby anger, will fall and dissipate.
I was the one, to pick up the milk, to carry it home, put into fridge. I was the one, because nobody else would. Because I made a promise to me. Because I have heart, and that always seems to cheat me. You see,
No matter how many times I carry the milk, the marbles always stay screaming.
But maybe in a world full of anger, we should use our anger, and learn to fly.