Tuesday, January 17, 2006

In your own hands

VR28 Black Iridium. That's what causes the sepia tint on whatever I see. The chrome lining of the aviator-styled Crosshair gleamed in the overcast skies with little but occasional blast of the sun's rays hidden above the atmosphere. It was one of those dusty days where it felt like you were just rolling around in the desert looking for shelter of some sort, or just an escape.

I got irritable.

I closed the door of my truck, my fingers leaving behind a trail mark of clean lines on the otherwise dust-covered exterior of the paint. It would otherwise have been a nice shiny black car if I had bothered to wash my car. Polishing sounded like a waste of time, like...making your bed, or cleaning up after you're done, or using a glass to drink milk. It was all very unnecessary. Life was too short to be spent on doing unnecessary tasks. I should blog that, I told myself. That's some good shit.

Trying to compose yourself is an art form. It takes a lot of resources to do the right thing. It takes almost no resource whatsoever to vent. Anger, I found, if properly managed is like nuclear energy, it can do more good than harm. Its all a matter of control. That's the kind of art they don't teach you at art schools. I do what I always do, take deep breaths, and try to remain calm. The thing about taking a deep breath is that when I do that under pressure, the structure of my nose changes, I swear, and I start breathing audibly. Its the sound of a rhinoceros waiting to charge. I think its that sound that calms me down. Or freaks you out, whichever way, it works for me.

I don't have time for this.

But at the back of my head, well, actually just sitting on my left shoulder, was a voice telling me otherwise. I have all the time in the world for this. I was feeling better already. I paced slowly, step after step closer to the vehicle in front of me. Confrontation is going to be the highlight of my day. I tapped on the window with my wooden stick. I love my wooden stick. It weighs approximately 8 kilos or something of that sort, measures a good 1.5" x 1.5" and strong enough for me to use it as a leverage for anything, or smash anything. The fact that it hasn't broken nor split can only confirm that it can do what its supposed to do. I like that. I like knowing something is working like its supposed to, you know? The world makes more sense that way. There's less confusion, there's less figuring out, and more time to drink my beer.

'What did you think you were trying to do?' I asked in the nicest way possible.

You can tell an asshole from the way he manouvres his vehicle. Cutting from lane to lane and then trying to squeeze your way and being irritable only confirms that God has given you a brain to use and even though you're only using about 8% of it at any time, you are outdoing yourself by going below 0, because punk philosophy teaches you to do exactly that. From all the songs on the radio that you cannot seem to decipher the lyrics, or the goth movement that encourages you to dress up like the living dead, presumably in preparation for a short lifespan, these unnatural acts of nature reverses the polarity of the brain and thus allowing you to attempt such feats as; not keeping to your lane, speeding and expecting no consequences, switching lanes without signaling, and not being able to make a decision where or when to turn, for example.

Deep breaths. Calm down.

The stillness of the air didn't even create any resistance as I swung the stick at the A-pillar. Smashing the side mirror in a beer-can crushing movement I've practised for the longest time. He recoiled in shock at the horror of the sound of crushing glass. Which instantly created an irony of sorts. People who aren't afraid to die, are actually afraid to get injured. How about that. Perhaps their minute brain wasn't developed enough to understand that. Irony. 'Thats kinda ironic isn't it?' I should've said.


'Please. What?' Nothing can save you now. Fear is how you learn. Fear is a double promotion, or an entire Dummies novel condensed into as little time as possible because you really, seriously, absolutely want to learn. Its the learn or die concept that should be quite useful in the rebellious years of school. Yes, yes, you would of course get more deaths than now but you are getting real people in the world who seriously use their brains for a greater good. What's not to like? I like it. I like this.

'If I catch you doing that again. You're going to be next, do you understand? What are you going to do now? Are you going to make a police report? Do you really think I can't find you again? You do not want to see me again, do you understand that? I need you to tell me that yes, you understand. If not we can be here all day. I have all the time in the world.'

I see a glint of sparkle emanating from the end of my stick. The bits of glass shrapnel probably lodged itself into various geographical locations into it during impact. I'd probably need to clean that up later. I felt at peace again. The wheezing has gone, even though I was breathing deeply in and out. I think its only natural to want to do that, to remain calm, and to resolve your personal issues wherever and whenever it presents itself. I swung the stick over my right shoulder and walked towards my truck. Man, the heat is killing me, but at least I don't feel as irritable.

I like solving problems. Its so...therapeutic.

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No individuals were harmed during the creation of this fictional story. I just have powerful descriptive feelings.