I sometimes feel human emotion. I know, rare. Like a trained dog, I can turn off my emotions like a master switch on a breaker. I’ve practiced it for as long as I can remember.

Feeling deep love for another person only goes as far as my willingness to allow myself to be held onto. After all, love has always come with a price. A red tag, one with the cost of my soul, my freedom.

When faced with my mother not long ago I realized that I had mastered this skill, at least farther than I ever have before. When met with the onslaughts of emotion, those meant to cut deep into my soul, I felt nothing but apathy.

When the door slammed behind her, I was still sitting where she had left me. She was stuck, and I had finally let go of the idea that I could save her. The following day I wrote her a letter. One that exclaimed that at the end of everything we all have to hold ourselves accountable, even me. That I’ll always love her, but I don’t trust her.

Mumford and Son’s cry out in “White Blank Page”, “A white blank page and a swelling rage, rage.” I sometimes feel rage. Like floating down a lazy river and hitting a pocket of freezing water. I’m at peace, like a sunny day, until the afternoon brings a surprise thunder shower. An unexpected booming across the sky as you lay outside on your blanket far from shelter. A swelling rage.

Maybe that’s the part of me I need to focus on. Why does this rage still boil just beneath the surface. The rage that brings me back to lighting it all on fire, starting with myself. I learned the hard way that doesn’t work. Guess I’ll have to figure it out.