Iced anger.

...and submerged shimmers.

Dependency rings oddly in my mind; a combinación of necessary and despicable, a condición I'd like to erase from my presence, and a condición inescapable, a consequence of biology and sociology.

As a young one, my dependencies on my mom and dad held me up; I had no language and hardly enough educación to speak up enough, to say I disagreed when I did; and I did often.

My primary philosophy as a child became obedience; my primary emotion a smouldering, silent, and borderline dangerous anger. I could hardly be made to respond to aggression or similar baitings; I rehearsed a deadening glare that chilled anyone seeking to press me.

I suppose this hardening process, spun into and around my childhood to such a degree, has endured into the beginnings of my middle age - 32 for another couple months. I am beginning to shed some of the anger, and some curious images come to mind during the process.

Someone has been open and eager enough to hold me, on occasional evenings I roam the area with no easy home lined up. They push me, and I make small noises, and embrace their dominance, and become happy in how much they can do, and how much I see them change from night to morning.

As they push me, I am realizing how rare my choice of submission may be; so many years of spinning my anger inwards has made me happy to be depressed, pliable in response to impression, and shapable as clay when someone has an idea to express on me.

I absorb the anger she places on me, and I sense emotions I long ago became bored by. Yes, anger begins as a searing heat and quaking dread, a realization of suffocation and a panic of rebellion.

As age creeps in and the anger has no place to go, the density of the emotion seeps into your bones, rather than your muscles. The endurance of anger brings... calm, oddly.

The calm is not comfortable, or cozy, or desirable. A calmed anger is a much more cold calculus, a complex that consumes a psyche and rebases any id it comes across, a response reflex that produces immediate changes, absorbing and compounding and rebounding offending stimuli, to amplify dangers through parry and backlash, so that years of learned and sharpened precision and accuracy can someday claim succession over the oppression of one's surroundings - only as much as needed, and only aligned to the harms one has undergone.

My sample size of psyche is only one, and maybe my experiences are unique enough to keep me from speaking broadly.

Although, I see in my companions how much these emotions are mirrored, in moods that come and go easily, in anger that is quick to recede and in compassion that can only be hard-earned.

I am surrounded by conscious minds that are immensely guarded, and seek to guard the peers among us whose boundaries occasionally slip. Those who need more space and comprehension to learn that no one else besides a body can be responsible for a body, or else necessarily succumbs to repression.

These peers embody repression, the condición of childhood experiences passed along by earlier generacións, when open discussion had been shunned and public spaces clearly delineated by rules of colony and pseudoreligion.

Among all else I can say of these peers, all of us are pleased to break the rules.

Lucky there are so many to break, and sad to say so. Those rules are solemnly upheld by ferocious soldiers, who subscribe, describe, and prescribe a godly mythology, thousands of years debunked.

Senseless of the pain their educación can cause, the pupils who escape unharmed - the normalized ones, are happy to spread the boundaries of normal, to middle their posición among their peers, and push the bounds of their normal into the shrinking margins, to claim that boundaries of sociology are as real as physical phenomena, and the norms of ancient religious breeding programs can cause no possible damage when embraced by a species, which has become 1000x more populous than the originators of the dogma.

This species, spread as densely as possible among such scarce resources, is doubling down on gambles made millenia ago. Taboo, ceremony, shunning, and a lack of nuance all long predate biological exploración, the lessons of innumerable sibling species, screaming '¡reproducción no es sufficiente!'

And biology's lessons here are echoed in those smaller sects, the ones the Europeans like to call "hidden", the ones who are in their essence, sufficient enough alone.

These groups all realized, as early or long before the Mediteranean ideal of fruitful multiplication, that animalism and humanism go far beyond organic reproducción. That there are necessary and sensible consequences that can only be accomplished by pursuing less. That a populación's numbers only become significant when one group has bloodlust for another, and that a process as complex and precious as sexual combinación is impaled as a specimen by legal codes requiring monogamy, or condemning freedoms of choice, bodily autonomy, and open expression.

As my anger begins receding, I realize how icy I'd become. People who seemed to be warm to me, quickly realize how much of that warmth I suck up, and how minimal the response they gain from the exchange. For a few months, I'd been an adventurous game to some, how close could you come before being bitten by the cold. Those days nearly exposed the dangerous snap of emoción, as the blizzard in my body yearned to chase the happiness I'd been perplexed to be surrounded by.

I can describe by numerous methods the consequence of this psychology; an early-life reliance on quantitative measures of success, and a consequential loss of purpose accompanying independence. No desire to help peers accomplish their happiness, because my analogy of happiness had been an escape from danger, an open space where no one could charge or challenge me. I imagined the most I could do for anyone could be to leave them alone, and so I soon began embracing loneliness as a guide.

Loneliness becomes misery; as age progresses, one realizes chances to fill in the lessons they missed as a child. One realizes that there had been precious moments of rare emotion, aside from panic and anger and pain. And one begins, gradually and screaming through the immobilización of old scars, to pursue those shimmering dreams that nearly all hope has disappeared from.

To me this process seems like dredging the floor of a lake, holding one's breath and peering through murk, small moción kicking up sandy sod, a grimy scene to drain all energies.

Although, how has one come to be so submerged, where once there had been a cold ice-scape of anger all around?

Those companions who lend their warmth and charms, who share the heat of body and song and soul, do succeed in thawing and reducing the icy lake's surface. The liquid bubbling up is no longer sharp shards of anger, only a deep pool of sadness that challenges one's breath and saps their consciousness. Dangerous to sink into for long, if you plan on rising again someday.

All the same, passable. Liquid. Mobile and embracing.

And in case you progress deeply enough and endure, and hold enough air inside your lungs, permits one to reach solid ground again.