On being angry

Anger isn't probably the ideal word to start a blog entry with but there you go. I've always loved ire and the more malleable irate but for today, let anger get its spotlight. I know it deserves more than always being upstaged by more "beautiful" words and being camouflaged by contrived pieces of language and anyway, for once, I find that I love the rawness of it.

"I'm angry."
That beauty again.

Now where does that leave our dear friend irate? In my head, of course. And, for some inconceivable reason, fate always follows it there. Irate fate. One of those phrases that are hard to get out of your mind until you do something about/with them. I don't even remember if I coined it myself or picked it up from somewhere but it reminds me of a failed exercise about an year ago, a tacky, convoluted peice of poetry that has since been confined to the archives. Where is it, I don't even remember what it was called. One of these days, I'm going to have to reconfigure my archives and make them more searchable. There. I'm not about to rewrite it now and so would be prone to reproducing the very imperfections that have rendered it unpublishable for so long but then, you know, people do outrageously stupid things when they're angry.

Love of love, or hate of hate,
How do I relate to this inanimate state?
Unable to placate a debate that never seems to abate,
Powerless to liberate myself from a checkmate this intricate,
I prostrate before an irate fate and contemplate,
Is it hate of love or love of hate?

Compassion for words and exhumed baubles aside, I had fancied a bit of raw writing today with a particular something in mind when I started out but you see, anger is a master of the art of subversion. You might not be able to fathom the extent of damage I have done to myself by "wasting" (I know I'm greedy but sadly, that only makes me greedier) a raw, imperfect piece when it could've been so much better but I know how much the hangover's going to hurt. Stupidity by itself is a not-so desirable yet often harmless trait but when it consorts with the disruptive chicanery of anger, it's known to act not so stupidly, after all. The irony of it. Anyway, innate stupidity aside, I can't risk losing another of my imperfectly developed ideas to its guiles and hence, for all practical purposes, wish to stop here.

Now, why wouldn't I want to stop writing here? My mind's already somewhere else, in another state (geographical, not metaphorical), tripping in a past, in another state (metaphorical, not geographical), dripping with nostalgia. One of those memories I composed one early morning on an orange, secluded beach has just revisited me thanks to the retrievable piece of music I invested it in.

Anger goes rather well with memory and that's where I'm going to take it.
Inflaming memory's memories has always been one of those undeniably addictive pleasures of life.