A Quiet Rage

There are times I am filled with a quiet rage. A rage made more terrifying, even to me, by its quietude. There is a stillness. A quietness. A deep still lake of defiance filled by my Scots Irish ancestors and tended by me and mine. Fires are built and banked, swords sharpened, precious things are laid by for contemplation at a later time.

Defiance. My blood runs hot and cold in the same moment. I shall give no quarter and I shall ask none. I will win or I will lose and that is enough for me. I detest cowards. I detest liars, thieves and moochers. I admire men and women who get their hands and clothes dirty at work. Children who obey their parents. Men and women who stand against the day and refuse to be victims. I fight for them. I won’t let them down.

It seems I’m always five minutes from crying or getting in a fight.

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