Rage Rage does not always present itself a red hot entity. In my experiences, it has appeared as varying and persistent gradations of a grey that swirl as if at the bottom of a wine glass. Opaque, transparent, sometimes tinged in a blue that forms it steel-like, sometimes a fog, a mist. It also isn't a bull, charging in mad frenzy, no singular plan, power and fortitude realized, but sans a purpose should it stop in its mad dash to remember. There are no splintering doors or the shattering musicality of bone china pulverized in an exciting caricature. Mine is perhaps the way a lioness stalks prey through the long, golden grass. It is patience. It is a jewel drop brilliance of intent. It hones a razor sharpness in the time of crouching and waiting, in the time before that and the time before that. I've heard told that rage is a glorious explosion--a fitting culmination of frustration, slights, ill-fortune and denial bottled and rammed together tightly, creating a concoction of elements that repels each other in an instant of touching. Boom! What a release. These are the stories, the examples that could almost render me envious. How convenient would that kind of expression be? How dramatic and satisfying and over all too soon. It almost leaves you longing. If we are wise in anything, we are wise in the knowledge of clinging to the familiar pathways we frequent like a holy procession. Where I sit crouched is still a good vantage point, where my bounteous well of rage is oily, homogenous, flowing into receptive channels and ducts eternal.