temper, temper

i used to think that my fighting style was a precise replica of my mother's: fast to heat, exploding bright and hot and loud. quick to cool as well. no grudge. all this was in opposition to my sister's style, which is slow to build and absolutely terrifying when it happens, and lingering.

the longer i analyze it, however, the more i realize that i'm molding myself to be somewhere between the two. largely because with the things that cause me most fury, i don't have the luxury of a cathartic explosion. because it doesn't do to yell at your co-workers, particularly not in the new new economy. and there, within the walls of this cubicle, is where my anger lies. as such, i have the high-burning waves of temper, but i am forced to hold on to them rather than vaporize them. and so they fuel the low fire, the kind that i know my sister is the master of (easy to ignore until one day they become an inferno). they shore up the one grudge i've been capable of keeping in living memory.

my fighting style (or, more specifically, my temperament) is changing; it travels in pulses and waves. i find myself having brief moments of blinding fury, absolute rancor about my impotence here, my frustration. they well up and make me see stars, catch my breath and gasp with the intensity, and i swallow them. in return, i get a slow burning seethe that makes me grind my teeth at night. it's part of the reason i started this little diary of mine, so i could vent some of this frustration without causing damage to myself and others. after all, while i keep the temper under fairly stringent control most of the time, the day will come when i will snap entirely, and i will either get fired or break someone's face.