It’s an anger. A rage. A quiet, but most definitely bubbling lagoon of molten irritation, aggression, and ire. Soon it will rise and flow over the nearby trees, already black and crooked and scarred. The trees will be scarred again, but they will never stop. They will never learn. The lagoon, for all its majesty, for all its wrath, for all the fear it should inspire, doesn’t affect the process of the trees. The bastards just keep on growing, scarred and charred but as if they did not notice the effect.
The lagoon is inside me. I live in peace with the lagoon, bubbling almost always, sometimes quiet and sometimes rising up as some mythical monster of the sea. There’s a rustling in the forest around the lagoon. Under different circumstances, some could describe it as peaceful but at the moment it is sinister, rising the pressure of my blood to a delicious level, making me twitch and grit my teeth and right now I feel ready for anything, irritable, angry, ruthless, and brilliant.
It doesn’t affect people. I keep it under wraps a lot when I need to and of course, I very rarely use my anger for any consequence, but I hold it close. It motivates me, when I use it correctly. Sadly, I often fail to. But even when it doesn’t motivate me, I can sit, nursing the lagoon within me, as it washes over, scalding the careless trees, and I can feel absolutely at peace, in the moment, with the rage coursing through my veins and electrifying me.
It’s a good thing. It’s definitely a good thing.