My Anger Transition to Happiness

My Anger Transition to Happiness

small orange-red spats of air which is fervently climbing towards its final destination, it first starts off slowly, pooling and gaping, howling and screaming in the sulpherous pit of a red hot oven. It brings its old wrinkly and weathered hands full of veiny secrets and inner fear, up through the bottom layer, a thick skin which is humid and transmuting tension, winding and stretching and teething for ambition, socially climbing its way out of a dark tunnel of expectations and rejections made by stealthy looking black masks that trap the everyday mind from ever becoming wholesome, rather becoming cumbersome and hard done until there's nothing left but your own wrinkled hands.

Eye's blood red, overheated with pulsating rage and its hot and musky and breezing your body with tempting manipulative glares of who is where and you are that, smells like hot burning salt and the summer breeze of India which could flip your fragile mindset, your agility, your controllability wears slowly like the hot rubber burning into tar, sticking to the road and ripping piece off by piece, you feel like they might burst with expellatives any ticking clock stroke of a numeric symbol.

A sundried sandbag of self pity and doubt, it beats so hard in your tiny locked shell, does everyone have a shell? Or have I only found one?, hoarse breathing, slow or fast it doesn't matter you can't feel it yet and its tightening and throbbing like it wants to do what the seeing sense parts do, flitter into a million pieces of shattered glass of desire and determination which succumbed from class and the long line of apparitions that manifested with the locked keys of the mindbox many that were seasoned ages ago, these wrinkled hands are in the cavity of your freedom of speech now, to speak or not to speak, is this the right path?, the pooling heat that once was in the pit, grew and grew with your doubtfulness and superiority and carelessness of future fallen destinies.

A glowing pit of worthlessness balled up in your speaking quarters, is the pompous ego still here? The growing lid has nearly lifted and we're nearly at the grassy hill in the middle of nowhere, the desolate deadlock, there is no where else, its coming now. The fruitful oranges that lit up the face have opened, exposing, exposing the white lights that protect the dark hole where the creature has trudged up along its narrow path for release. Long red curly strings unfurl like streamers on your 5th birthday, and balloons that popped on your 21st, yellow strings from your mothers love and the wise words of others, black strings from those ambiguous empty vessels that once were hearty filled lifelines wrapped around your big locked beating shell.

Emptiness has enveloped the carcass that you hold with your mindbox and locked shell, the glowing red demons have now surpassed the irrate council and are now crawling away to prepare their next flare, out of breath you sit atop this grassy breezy atmosphere, tis not so hot anymore, the salt is still there but it's in the breeze, the mindful twisting has ceased and clock strokes have slowed to a halt, with one last air spit a warm feeling crawls from the locked red beating shell that is not blue now. How graceful is someones hand that has picked you out of the pack of rotten strawberries, yes you are now ripe and shining above the rest, you finally made it.

The fuzzy warm feeling tickles its way through your body, from the shell first to the rest of the empty vessel, restoring your mother's heart and your father's equal aggression, it laces your locked keys that were inside the mindbox and something wet hits your cheek, it's also salty, the muscular figures dance about your face happily in an uproar, this time not only is the veil opening the way for the demons to get out, but the white lights are flashing gleefully and there's not a glowing manifestation of demonic prowlfullness to be felt, stand to feel the breeze won't you? It encases you with pink fluffy circlets of hope and fluttery heartfelt love, all in a vessel that has decided to now pick you, turning into them slowly and feeling their warmth, noticing everyone is the same, every leaf has veins, every air has the same particles, every carcass has a stronghold to this green, grass laden temperament. We're not so different you and I.


Practice stream of consciousness writing for extension English