rage - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Never be afraid of the rage that is fire, for my fire burns hot and dies fast. After such an inferno you will be able to walk over the cold ashes to my side and I will be nothing but cooling water for your soul. Should you ever find my rage cold, a frozen fury that burns - be miserable. For I can only be that way with those who aren't in my heart and to get there from where you are now means you turned traitor. So, dear one, be schooled by the flame so that you never know the torment of the ice.
I have never felt so much rage as when pushed into passivity against my will. That's what they expect though, you'll find that. Show your anger and they'll drug you into compliance. That isn't the only emotion you aren't allowed here, you'll see. They aren't used to natural people anymore, haven't seen one in so long, except the new "recruits." Most in here are drugged to the eyeballs, poor sods. I just act the good little worker-bee and they don't bother to medicate me. Should I ever see an exit though, even the tiniest glimpse of freedom beyond these walls, I'll let my anger flood out all at once. This rage I keep inside will be my ticket to freedom. I'd invite you to come, but most likely you'll be too addicted to the meds by then to survive out there.
Without my rage you treat me as the carpet on which you walk. With my rage I am trouble best ignored, left alone until signs of submissive behaviour are offered. Should I demand acknowledgment of my pain I can expect your counter-rage - the scorn of last resort to put me back into my box. Should I fail to acquiesce, I can expect the long drawn out "big freeze" in which you demonstrate just how little you need me, that I am optional in your life. All I ever want is for you to give a damn about how I feel, demonstrate you care. Instead you take the route of least brain power - ignore, shut down, sulk. And so the hot rage of my soul becomes a cold smoulder of suppressed anger; what should have been over quickly becomes a bitter taste that remains.
Rage builds like deep water currents. I did everything right - everything -and still this place is a God damn mess. Everything they have is what I made and they squander it like ill-raised children. That's when my anger comes, unleashed without thought of consequence. Even those that didn't earn this wrath today earned it at some point. Every one of them took what I made without thanks or even a backwards glance. I reduce them to human rubble with my words, all of them shocked. Mild mannered me - a wicked tornado. I expect sorrow, apologies, regret, repentance... none comes. They are angry that their perceived "servant" has turned - apparently I have no right to the negative emotions they tout with pride on a daily basis.
I watch the bonfire as if it can burn up my inner rage, as if my frustrations and anger are the fuel turns into black confetti. I feel the heat dry my skin, scorching, ordering a few steps backward, but I don't. I watch, eyes full open, posture square to the flames. Here I will stay until the glowing embers die, until the wind blows cold once more. Home is easier when the others sleep, faux solitude, no need for a mask of docility.
The apples lie on the ground bruised. Their once rosy surfaces are flat and dark where they should be rounded and some have the tell tale signs of mould. I should pick them up, take them to the compost but I won't. I'm too angry with Rebecca right now, her and her stupid dolls. I am sorry I broke her favourite, but how long can I keep on being sorry for? When does forgiveness happen? So instead of picking up the apples like a good girl I kick them around for good measure, only satisfied when they smack into the brick wall and crack open. The air smells of them now, sweet and fragrant. That should soothe me I guess, but it won't. I'm not going to be happy until every last one of them is broken open on the sodden earth.
It was like a vexing of the soul for what I felt was not human, it was twisted and distorted but it was something strong. It burned so bad like fire lacing my veins and creeping up my spine, my skin was a sore looking red but all I could feel was desire; desire to hate. I was intoxicated with emotion I had no intention of ever feeling, the acidity of it was residing in my stomach waiting to be spat out of my mouth in foul and vulgar words I would be stared at for saying, except I wasn’t going to say them, I was going to screech them with every ounce of breath that dwelled in my lungs.
Tia holds still, staring at Ryan, eyes locked right on his. There is a wrinkle in her nose that has nothing to do with a coming sneeze, muscles tight, jaw clenched. When she moves it's like an epic series of movie-stills, fists moving as her face contorts into an expression she's never worn before. Though she is screaming, it is mostly drown out by the freeway traffic.
I see Leo go past his personal tipping point. One moment he has his anger in a bundle, his chest coping nicely, the next anyone who doesn't "duck 'n' cover' is an idiot. This is why we don't have nice stuff, breakable stuff... The next moment Maria holds open the door so he can just run it off. He knows the drill... run until his urge to hit and destroy is controlled, then come back, slide into bed, sleep.
Her rage held all the power of a wildfire, you could practically see the flames roaring in her eyes, ready to ignite anything that she came in contact with.