The greatest thing James Frey taught me is to see my rage. Feel the fury of it, like a stream of volcano tossing down the hill to get me. Except that volcano resides in my chest, deep –down, visceral and ferocious. It gives me a screeching pain that refuses to go despite multiple negotiations with reason. The countless sobs that can’t be suppressed by a Gotye song, the need to cry my skull out on eternal sunshine soundtrack, the desire to grab a tree so tight inorder to feel safe and protected.
There is rage inside me, inside you. Whose form I don’t know but whose intensity I feel on days like these. It hounds my soul, like Siberian dogs. It eats me away minute by minute. I forget to feel like Howard Roark, I forget the ways in which he has inspired me instead I end up feeling like Max, ‘confuzzled’ at everything that falls in the domain of human relationships. I distrust my parents, my friends and most tragically myself. I distrust the power of creation, I distrust his fruits. I do not know what causes me this rage, I can’t even begin to know because finding a reason is too enraging a thought itself.
What I do is I look for solitude. Actually I don’t have to look for it, it crawls towards me and takes me by its grab. Sometimes it tempts me with alcohol and similar intoxication. I refuse. I pick up James Frey and measure the hole in his heart. It’s bigger than mine. It’s comforting to know the unimaginable ways in which universe can destroy you.
So will I