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I still refused to believe him and started walking towards the exit area. But Sam was faster. He strode behind me, grabbed me and whirled me around. He pointed a finger towards me and said, “Don’t you dare walk on me like that. I have had enough of your non sense for last one month. Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” he hissed. I cocked my head. Craned my neck to meet his eyes, I purred like a kitten and started to speak. But suddenly a guard appeared out of nowhere and said, “I am really sorry to bother you but fighting is not allowed in the lobby. It distracts people like us from more important things you know. However if you want to continue I suggest you go to the north-east corner of the upper basement. We don’t have a CC Camera there.” I had never been more humiliated. My ears burnt hot. I murmured a note of thanks and boarded the elevator. Sam followed suit. He looked quite normal and amused. How could he be so normal after being whacked out by a security guard from his own office lobby? In fact, I thought, he was suppressing a grin. Was he insane? Sulking with mute anger I pressed the UB button in the elevator. ↗
Adara, cease!" She froze at the sound of a voice she hadn't expected to hear. For a moment she thought she might be dreaming, until she blinked to look up into the most handsome face she'd ever known. She stared at the same blue eyes that made the tenderest of love to her. Christian. Her grip went lax and the candlestick in her hand fell to the floor. He was alive! She threw herself into his arms and held him close as giddy tears replaced her grief-induced ones. At least until her rage took hold again. "Damn you, you worthless, heartless son of a dog!" she snarled, pulling back to strike at his chest. "How dare you make me think you were dead! Don't you ever do such a thing to me again. " Christian was stunned by her language and actions. "I didn't know you could hear us through the door." She struck him again on his armor, a blow that no doubt he felt not at all, but it gave her some degree of satisfaction. "Well, think better next time." Her untoward anger amused him. Wiping the tears from her face, he kissed her tenderly. ↗
Hate and anger were what had kept him alive. He had fed on them for so long, they were the only emotions he recognized, the only ones he still knew how to feel. And yet, right now, surrounded by the warmth of the three precious girls who were using him as a pillow, hate seemed very far away, crowded out by things unknown and yet familiar, impossible things. Love. A feeling of belonging. A sense of peace. He closed his eyes. It was all an illusion. He didn't belong anywhere. He didn't know what love was anymore. And peace . . . Christ, what was that? So Conor sat listening to the rain and stealing a few moments of trust and affection he did not deserve from three wee girls who were not his. And he reminded himself at least twice that night that he was not a family man. ↗
To Your eyes a thousand years are like yesterday come and gone, no more than a watch in the night. You sweep men away like a dream, like grass which springs up in the morning. In the morning it springs up and flowers, by evening it withers and fades. So we are destroyed in Your anger, struck with terror in Your fury. Our guilt lies open before You; our secrets in the light of Your face. All our days pass away in Your anger. Our life is over like a sigh. Our span is seventy years or eighty for those who are strong. And most of these are emptiness and pain, they pass swiftly and we are gone. ↗
I have met people who truly do not believe in God, and they feel no anger when they see suffering. They are indifferent to it. But you and I are angry. Anger is not indifference. I blamed God because He took my family. But I couldn’t get revenge from God, so I turned my rage against other people. I wanted revenge. Someone must pay.” “You’re wrong.” Helen said, wanting desperately to believe that he was. “I told you, I no longer believe in God.” “Then why are you so angry with Him?” His eyes were so sorrowful that Helen had to look away. She was unable to reply. “You blame me and my country for your losses Miss Kimball. And I blame you and your country. But you and I are people, not countries. Did you kill my wife? My child? Would you put a gun to their heads and shoot them, or take away all of their food and watch them die? No, of course not. Neither would I kill someone you loved if I met him face to face. Wars come from bitterness and hatred. They are started by nations without face. But wars end when the hatred ends in the hearts of people like you and me. That is why I ask you to please forgive me. ↗
If in fact your time to be called before God, you typically won't know it. Sometimes you will, and these are the hardest of times: When the blood pours from your nose and down your throat, clogging it, causing you to spit and gag. You heave for breath in the smoke and dust. Your equipment seems to suffocate you. You wipe the salty sweat and grime from your eyes, only to realize that it is blood, either yours or that of the enemy. You would stand, but you can't move your legs. You grasp the open, gaping wounds in your body, trying not to pass out from the pain. You feel the anger thinking of the loved ones you will never see again, and losing your life infuriates your soul. You rage to get to your feet and grab for a weapon, any weapon. Regardless of your race, culture, or religion, you want to die standing, fighting like a warrior, an American, so others won't have to. For those looking for a definition, this is the price of freedom. ↗
#death #freedom #inspirational #war #warrior
Is it possible that we ‘hate’ politics because we have forgotten its specifi c and limited nature, its overwhelming value, and also its innate fragility? Could it be that our expectations are so high that politics appears almost destined to disappoint? Democratic politics cannot make ‘every sad heart glad’, as Crick argued, nor did it ever promise to do so. But not always getting what you want, an awareness that public governance is often slow and bureaucratic, a frustration that some decisions are hard to understand or have to be made in secret, disbelief and anger at the selfinterested behaviour of a small number of politicians, and an acceptance that some people will always take out more from the system than they put in—these are the prices you pay for living in a democracy. ↗
Anger is the fire of the soul, love is the language of the heart ... ↗
#anger-management #cosmic-ordering #healing-in-the-hurting-places #healing-the-emotiinal-self #healing-the-soul
I’m not interested in Bob Marley telling me to ‘lively up’ myself. The only music that satisfies me is Nine Inch Nails and Trent Reznor’s voice crying through industrial rhytms. In the August evenings, I lie on my bed with earphones, letting his laments roll through me like unrepentant thunderstorms. I envy the courage that carries his voice into the world. He doesn’t berate himself for pain and anger; he howls. And this delights me, even though I feel ashamed when my own rage comes to the surface. My anger doesn’t signify courage; it’s just more confirmation that I’m bad. ↗
#depression #shame #anger
