Where is my red, dark, dark, red, dark paint? My fat, bristles-awry, paintbrush? My canvas?
The red goes on sloppy and fast. I deliberate about what, about whom, enraged me. The thoughts cause me to work faster, with more exaggeration. More convulsively.
The large paint strokes scream. The red furrows like my brow. The clumps of paint are confusions.
The process is relieving. Relaxing, in a ravenous, gulping&spewing of air kind of way.
Finished, I feel relieved. And I am no longer mad. The feelings are out there. The rage is gone. And I forget why I was mad in the first place. Exhausted. Drained. With such a fruitful and futile confrontation.
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