Ever wake up, for no good reason, just sort of pissed at the world?
Actually, for some people the question is, do you ever not.
But anyway, that’s not usually how I wake up. Usually I’m ok. Maybe not great, but ok. I don’t mind being awake; sun in the window, or the sound of rain, and the promise of one of the best things in my day, that first cup of strong, dark coffee.
Today though, some dream, or some turn of moon or some other turmoil in the back of my mind soaked across the line that divides subconscious mind from mood, and I woke wanting to hit something.
I don’t even feel bad this morning, physically, which is a good thing; the first moring in a week I havn’t woken with a a sinus headache.
Yet – this low, murky feeling of rage. This vague desire to do harm with no real specific target and no ability to communicate what it is. No ability to communicate at all; I’ve been trying to answer emails all morning and just keep sitting and staring, hands hovering over the keyboard. Nothing. No words come.
I’m not even mad at anyone, or anything. It’s a static charge of annoyance that needs to arc someplace.
Normally I’d feel better – food, coffee, exercise, these simple things please me. Even doing crunches until my muscles burned didn’t sear away the feeling. I would go back to bed but after three cups of my black liquid crack, there’s no sleeping, not for a good twelve hours at least, if that.
I feel like Al Swearingen in the Deadwood episode Here Was a Man; “I need to fuck something! Trixie, get up here. And bring the bottle.”
Yeah. That’d work.