The Rage

There it is, I see it again.

It was on the horizon of my mind, but it comes for me now.  Seething and bellowing, the great minotaur, horns sharp as winter sunlight, breath as dark as soot; it has fire burning in its eyes and strikes great swords upon the ground.

I fear it and love it.

My medicine has gone from my mind, that quells it.  All these years gone, I hear it say, and you are old now.

Weak.

Is that how you defy me now? To be infirm and afeared.  Timid.

Your chemical bonds are gone and I am free once more and I shall not be denied.

Only your great loves drew me forth once, for all that you tried to tame me, and they are gone.

You are weak, pathetic.

Oho! There is something new, what is it?

You change! You have found the strength to admit what you are!

Yes! Yes! Embrace me now for I am the rage you resist, and it has never been of the source you think, little one, see me now uncloaked at last. No, I am not the rage of your sire, oh how you have ravaged him in your memories, a delicious touch even as he deserved your wrath.

I am the twisting envy of she who birthed you, she had not the strength, and she used words as silver-tongued and ophidian as a stream of quicksilver, oh quicksilver, yes, as she quickened him and his muscle, frustrated and goaded, yes, push and meddled, cycled his rage and you caught it all, all because you have in you never say yes, never give in never give up never compromise.

How profound you are!

And what have you got for me, what sacrifice will you give?

What is it you give, I have always taken your reason, you cannot give it to me, it is mine and I have eaten it again and again until I am sated, I have thrust myself upon, surprised it, mugged it, swung my sword upon it and my sword, I have had it until it is my little pretty and it falls in line like the slave of your soul, to me.

You seek to use me, control me.

Foolish!

You who could be immortal, you have sacrificed yourself to me so many times, and weakened yourself, even your sons recognise your mortality, your vulnerability, your humble humanity.  I spit on you for being weak and I hope the acid burns your skin.

It has nothing but contempt for me.

But I am more, I swear it.

I am woman, I know it now.

That rage is my rage, and I shall possess it again.   I was immortal and I became so when my child was born, my strength renewed.  I called upon the power of the infinite and it was mine without limit.  And when my next was born it renewed again.  I was everything.  They depended on me and I became equal to all things.  I was alive.  Alive!

When did I become vulnerable?

I am changing, I see it, I feel it, inside.

I struggle to keep the rage in, I had forgotten it is so hard, so hard.  She is there contained, and my reason, she is strong, as I built her, but their battles rage, a hammered landscape in my mind, glassed over where the weapons of their strains blow hot and cold in my living brain.

My reason, she was almost lost and her voice echoes on, but drowned almost by the bellows of The Rage, the screams to be let free, to do war upon those who have slighted us.

And I see it, I have no desire to hurt, it is not for me to cause pain and suffering, that is a revulsion to me.  The kindnesses within me for my beloveds and my friends and my fellow people, I see them drowning, and the rage will rescue them, fight for them, strike up the forests of my mind like a match and watch them burn with a million flames as revenge for that suffering, and still I will not let it out.

I am weak, and I have done it to myself, lest I reach forth and crush even my loved ones should the frustration and rage come.  Some challenge me, and it is all I can do not to thrust my hands through their mortal flesh and rip forth their still-beating hearts.

My Reason cries daily, pleads with me, begs me do not let it out, do not let it run over us, do not let it be us and the whole of us; but I am drowning in chemistry and I have given up my crutch but another magic pill is taking away something and another magic pill is giving me something and it feels like rage.

I can taste it, I can hear it in my heartbeat.  I reach out to minds again and the noise is intolerable, unthinkable.

The Rage comes on.

And with it, my magic returns.

It is my reward.

The sparkling vistas of my higher thought.

And in these moments, these fleeting glimpses of the sublime, I see hints of the divine.

Just before The Rage takes me, I see the light.

It is the light of God.

I will always see the light of God surrounded by the flames of rage.

It is my blessing and my curse.

I will create on the lip of a volcano about to spew forth magma.  I will conduct great symphonies in hurricanes.  I will paint vistas on the walls of great swells.

There is nothing else for me.

I have seen an inspiration, been taken by beauty and strength.

I will be strong again, and my Reason too.  I will harness The Rage, finally, it will be mine and my war will be won.

Prepare world, for I am come again.

I dance of the edge of creation and it is mine once more.