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.

One Comment on “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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