The anger sneaks up on you. You think you’re over it, living back in your head instead of your gut. Then in a flash, you’re back in the fire, wanting to set all the bridges ablaze and laugh while you watch them go up.
You don’t, of course. (“This time,” the little voice whispers.) You know how horrible the consequences would be.
But the anger’s like acid, wearing away at the walls of your self-restraint and decades of congealed adultiness.
Which will happen first? Will you find a solution and temper the flames? Or will the anger find a chink that leads to a crack which widens to a fissure which leads to your “responsible as-if” personality cracking like an eggshell with an M-80 inside?
So you breathe. You listen to the Brandenburg Concertos. You calm down. You watch videos of the Falcon Heavy launch. You adult.
And you wait.
We Love The Stars Too Fondly 