Anger. There you have it. The word the rocks my world in the wee hours where angelic faces sleep and the depraved gather their forces. On the cusp of the full moon, I was angry. Filled with fury and self pity. I was angry at having to work through he night without any real rest during the day. I was angry that I was in a position that warranted my night work on bended knees, sore from the concrete below them. I was angry at husband for not having more machismo to say "to hell with you, not my wife!". I was angry with the fact that I am an educated woman with above average intelligence and whole lot of chutzpa that was dead tired, her gut wrenching from too much coffee just so she could stay awake. The anger in my heart was boiling...overflowing like an unwatched pot, popping and fizzing in yellow blue flames. The hiss of steam screaming at midnight.
I was angry at myself.
Yet, I turned back my tears. No one would see me cry. Not for this. Not for them. No satisfaction was to be gained for the other side of the fence. They could not pity me. They would not see my heart breaking in front of their smirking faces. I would not allow such intimate facts to be shared with strangers. There was no point in bringing them into my world, for they would never be more than a passing fancy. Entertained with with casual banter and a rough sketch of the person I had become..
I have often wondered how we shape our lives and to what resolve? There are dreams and aspirations, fleeting bits of wonderment turned from possibility to a wisp of smoke that lingers on the tip of a gun. You shoot from the hip and aim for the target only to see that there is no hole on the bulls eye.
Shall we call this a misfire?