A Rebel in Thought

Here in my chair, before my spacious desk, I strike with furious fingers on keys that unlock no doors and make no music. Sporadically come the ideas like bangs of thunder in the stormy hours I’ve committed to my cause. I stand and sit. I open new tabs and wander. The nagging never falters in spite of the pauses, and contrarily I find they strength my moves of combat. I’m blessed to be able to pause between blows, in this war of mine, and strategize my next act. The successive boom can be strong and lucid with a quaking fear rushing out like a tsunami, or maybe just a rumble or two in wait of the next reverberation. It always delivers though on the other side of the undetermined pause because of my ire. That ire desires to rage like a fire in a spire higher than any funeral pyre and I need to let it go. Like a rapid dog left off its leash I need it to rush forward and bark.

     It’s the news. The words and messages telling of messes both near and far by those who govern the lands we call our own. Every word either confirmed or not becomes another brick in my house of righteousness and conflict. This isn’t something I wish to carry a banner for, but when there is a side so wrong and easy to feel strongly against I feel I must be a reluctant body on the battlefield. There is no question. I watch the feeds and feel my armor build with every chapter title of the story of today. It is a destiny so complete for me that I feel lost when the fast grows too long. Too long without my armor makes me feel naked.

     A whole day I spend striking blows at the unknown enemy on the wrong side. I reflect on my gear and realize it’s the helmet covering my face that makes me most secure. I may have also developed a tea addiction. I fight. I brew tea. I Pace, then sip tea. Rumble a little, then sip tea. Finish tea, brew more. High priority is the tea when I’m supposed to be so focused, but the sacrifice of course could never be made. These are the hours that I storm the battlefield, and on the odd day I reflect. Never once has one conceded to me. Not once have I ever felt a true triumph. The tantrum rages but never does contentment come. The questions must form natural with clouds darker than any I’ve ever mustered and the twister touches down: who am I? Without a name or face I am safe from being targeted, but has the mask I’ve adorned stitched in to flesh and made me anonymous to even myself?

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