Rage’s paint brush and compass

I think for the first time, at 27, I’ve been encouraged to really feel my anger. Been told that it was okay. That there was beauty and lessons to behold within and from it.

Honestly, it’s a weird, fiery, but oh so elegantly beautiful chaos here. The first time I’m looking at the red sky of my own purgatory,. Rather than running from the monsters here, I’m just looking up, noticing the strokes of red and black. No longer feeling fear. Just feeling. It’s bizarre, somber. Not static, just… dark. and that’s okay. There’s a weird peace in facing it. Greeting it. Finally acknowledging. And now, writing this, looking at this beauty, realizing it won’t engulf me whole if I don’t want it to… I wonder why I’ve been running from it my whole life, why my parents ran from it there whole lives. What a tireless, endless, and false hoped-marathon that is. To not acknowledge true pain, curiosity, trauma, to allow ourselves to fear the rage that comes with tthat. That we’re allowed to have. That is so natural. WHy do we fear this side of our nature? I think with less resistance, and with respect instead, we won’t take the very actions we imagine would cause us more pain and regret from these raw emotions. OUr samsara, maya has such a way about it doesn’t it? Such a strong face and yet the most misleading and hollow. ANd people spend their whole lives running from that false representation and even build entire empires on that ground, a ground that was flagged wrong, filled with toxins and dumpster waste, radiation, killing us slowly. A land they thought was bountiful… but what if the most bountiful view, the one you most bountiful to you ,whatever that means, was actually somewhere different? had other things, ones that you decided personally brought you peace, and that was somewhere very different?

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