This emotion so powerful and overwhelming, At the centre of my existence,
Controls my every waking moment, Fuelled by alcohol,
Abated by narcotics,
Never to mellow with age or wisdom,
The red mist clouds my eyes and judgement, The demons of self will taking me over completely, Until shrieking is my only form of communication, Heart races and fists clench,
Rivulets of blood roll from furrows, Inflicted by untrimmed nails,
Unaware of how and why,
Nailed to this cross I must bear,
With no way out,
Enforced upon me by the conduct of others,
A mandatory requirement to survive childhood, Now left with these remnants hanging on to me, Like the ill fitting suit,
A hand me down from another generation, Ignorant to appeals from others,
Calmed only by beauty,
No other remedied can cure this infliction,
So till then I will rage and thunder, Storming through life like a mid summer tornado, Chilling people to the bone,
And in this cold snap I will find, Comfort.
As a proffesional chef you have to have aggression, it has to be in easy reach for the second you will need it, like a pot bubbling away on the back of the stove in your mind, ready for when you need a big ladle of it. I dont know if I became a chef because of this anger or that the anger grew bigger because I was a chef. It was always their, on some of the dark days I would know that some one was going to see the wrath of my blackened mood, I didnt know who, i just knew there was going to be an eruption.
These were blood curderling outrages, Alan would step out, and anger would step in and drive this rant, as I took a backseat and became a passenger, unwilling or unable to control the beast that lay within. Its still there today, but I have a handle on his 95% of the time.