rage postin' soundtrack: option 1 -- option 2

This is it today. I am so fucking sick of it all. Of analyzing things to death, of being a sitting duck, of reenacting old patterns. Of this fucking sameness. Of being under-appreciated. Of hiding out in a bad dream. Of not getting what I want.

I want everything changed, and NOW.

I want slates wiped clean. Beds to be stripped. Furniture turned over. I want every damn piece of ridiculous bric-a-brac to be swept violently off every shelf and every surface and I want them to smash on the floor, hard, so they're gone for good--no chance of their being able to be glued back together. No, no, if the pieces aren't small enough, I will grind them into DUST. With my bare fists if I have to.

I want the paper with that fucking tedious, stalled, writer's-block excuse of a life story half written on it yanked from the typewriter, balled up and thrown in the trash.

I want that tired, frayed, fingerprint-smudged, smelly old oil-cloth backdrop that's been hanging behind me pulled down and trampled on and set on fucking FIRE. I want to pull up the seats, knock down the beams, bash and kick in every footlight. Take a sledgehammer to the walls.

I just want to rip and tear and demolish and destroy and burn, burn, BURN it all, until I drop from complete exhaustion into the sweet, deep, dreamless sleep of physical excess.

And, when it is done, I want to wake up to find bright white sunlight hitting my face, streaming through the hole blown through the plaster and brick of this false construct of a place to live. And I want to look up and through the old dust silting through the sunbeams, and I want to see a pounded dirt path leading directly out, straight from that hole in the wall into some new place, full of new green leaves and sun sparkle and the promise of rushing water somewhere in the distance. And I want to stand up, wobbly-legged and freshly born, and step out into the clean air.

(photo credit: Structure fire by mallison01)