Anger. Anger so strong it seems to tear your muscles. Anger so strong it makes you want to throw up. Anger so strong it makes you feel dead. Anger fueled by shame, hatred, fear and time. Anger you can not contain, anger that takes you over and makes you its slave. Anger that makes you think of murder when you see beauty. Anger that burns, anger that freezes. Anger that isolates you, anger that makes you enjoy misery. Anger that violates your senses, anger that radiates, anger that consumes love and spits it out in disgust. Anger without trust. Anger unspoken of, anger not allowed to exist. Anger braking joy, anger breaking toys. Anger that destroys gods. Anger that belongs to a god. Anger in the shadows, anger burning meadows. Anger that does not forgive, anger that is unforgiven. Anger that attacks itself, anger yearning for hell. Anger seeking justice, seeking cause. Anger that is lost. Anger never born, anger full of scorn. Anger spreading terror, anger that is an error.
Anger that is a stranger. Anger that is a friend.
Beloved anger, forever mine, I am forever thine. Goodbye.
After so many articles about unconditional love and all that, let’s have some variety. Sometimes anger and violence can be a good tool to enforce your personal boundaries. For example to shield yourself against bitchiness, guilt-trips, shaming and passive aggressive shit. And against overt aggression as well, of course.
This is something that happened to me a while ago on the street, as I was out to get some food. An small old haggard cunt with grey dyke-cut hair walked past some beggar who owned a dog. She screeched at him and said That is a nono! This is forbidden! I did not care for the dog or the beggar, but her toxic nature made me instinctively turn around and show her my face with disgust written on it. If she wants to go around throwing her black shit at everyone, she may as well get some back. Karma.
I looked away and she passed by. She then said behind my back, snarkily and bitchily Do not look that way! With that tone of supremacy.
I want to ask you a question. I want to ask you to answer it spontaneously, without thinking, out of your gut. The question is: Who creates all the pain in your life?
Okay, I admit it. I am not that creative. This question is just a variation of something a woman asked me in response to a Quora question of mine about free will. She wrote: Who creates your life? Although it seemingly had no connection to my question, I felt a deep desire to answer this question. And although I did not fully understand my own answer, it was simple: I. I create my life. I choose everything I am and everything I experience.
I still do not fully understand it. But I can not deny that the only answer that feels right is still the same.
There is a cool site called Existential Comics with lots of comics poking fun at philosophers of all ages. Here is a fun bit about stoicism. The message is a bit similar: You can not harm me. It is only me who can choose to suffer from events I have no control over.
I have been doing meditation for about half a year now and about two weeks ago I had a short insight into how this is true. I was at cinema and the ads started running as they always do. And as always, I had a reflexive reaction to them: I felt contempt, boredom, ridicule.
Recently, I used to have dreams in which my mother ridiculed and humiliated me. I wanted to strike her, but something kept me from it, I felt paralyzed. There was also this one time where my mother threw a nice skull I owned out of the window. I wanted to punch her, but I felt a similar kind of fearful resistance.
Now, I have been thinking. Does it make sense to be afraid of women purely for reasons of shaming tactics or to avoid rejection? It does not quite add up.
Some time ago, a commenter remarked about a picture of me and my mother and my grandmother that it is obvious that they must be afraid of me physically. It is a thought that never entered my head and it is true that I am much stronger and taller than my mother and other women, for whatever it’s worth.
Some time later, during my meditations, I was reminded of the fact that my mother used to beat me when I was still too young to defend myself. Got me thinking.
What if fear of women is – partly – just a residual fear leftover from days when women were still ones physical superiors?
My first day as a free man in two months. I take a ride into the city to buy a cheap checkers game. On my way around the cathedral I hear a woman scream. A man is firmly holding a relatively attractive young woman’s two hands at a restaurant table. Let me go, she shouts. I wonder what it is about. I look at her hands; she has some kind of necklace wrapped around her fists.
I suspect she attacked the man and now she is getting what she asked for. Let me go, you asshole!
She looks around; a few somewhat amused people are watching. Help me! Help me, you cowards! Aah, you are hurting me! I feel mild shame, but I will not interfere in a situation I know nothing about. Besides, it is interesting to watch. In fact, it is interesting that there really seems nothing I can do without knowing what happened. Justice is a blind bitch.
Inoccuosly, one of the cops calmly opens the metal cell door. Have they decided to treat me with respect, after all? Then two cops in heavy armor and helmets come rushing around the corner. I lie still and let it come and happen.
One of the stormtroopers jumps right onto my chest with his knee. I let my body be limp and after a few moments, I end up lying on the floor of the cell with handcuffs behind my back.
I ask them whether they intend to carry me. Drag along, rather, one remarks.
I study the floor and their shoes. The ones who stand right next to me look like a bird shat on the dominant black leather. The pair further away looks more cared after.
You could learn a lesson from your colleague there, I remark, his shoes look much cleaner than yours.
The car arrives at the police station. I wait for one of the cops to open the door and I stand up. One of the cops authoritatively grabs my left arm. I calmly tell him that I managed to learn to walk on my own during the course of my lifetime. I slightly stutter as I say it and the cop mocks me for it.
I walk the street towards the supermarket as I notice an elderly woman arguing with a policeman. She is pissed, because the cop’s colleague is prolonging the process by having parked the police car on a bus stop. Intrigued and amused, I approach.
I join the woman and the policeman and mockingly ask her what kind of horrible crime she has committed. She seems open about my inquiry, but the cop is not. He tells me to go away. The authoritative tone of voice triggers anger in me. I am reminded of all the occasions where I just let those fuckerswalk over me.
I tell him that he has no business telling me where to go.
During the past month, I have experienced more self-doubt than I can remember having experienced in my whole life. Am I sane? Am I insane? And what does each of those terms mean?
My mind keeps bringing up proof of my insanity. Why? I guess because I am already used to judge myself for everything that happens in my life. I always seek the error in me. On the internet, I can sometimes hide it, but underneath I always feel that it is my fault. I may write fuck you somewhere, but rest assured that usually I mean: I am bad. I am unworthy. You have sensed it, but I will not admit it, because you can not read that out of a simple text comment.
Every scrap of self-esteem that I thought I had built up crumbled when I was made to doubt the core of my existence. There she stands, one of the judges of the city of Munich. An old woman with a piercing in her nose. I say that men beat each other, that is what we do.
I wish there was a man there to understand and I tell her that she would not understand, because she is not a man. She snarkily remarks that she is lucky not to be one of those. There she stands and declares my insanity while I am bound to the bed, unable to move any limb, unable to even lie on my side within the restraints, forced to take anti-psychotic medicine and Lorazepam, neither of which I want.
It is so fucking unjust. And yet, I guess I attracted that into my life.
Why does one man get to command another to leave a public space and get to push him away with force while the other man gets declared insane for pushing him back and fighting him? Continue reading “The injustice of it all!”