So, growing up, I somehow turned into this angry, frustrated individual who had a lot to complain about regarding the rest of the world.
Looking back, most of it stemmed from an inflated self-image, or perhaps a “holier than thou” attitude. But mostly, my rage was fueled by the logical arguments I carried in my armor, giving me the intellectual edge over my nemeses at the time.
But then, it was an all-consuming rage, stealthy as a submarine, laying siege from the depths of my veins.
Consequently, I carry on my body and soul a lot of war wounds. Often, my evenings are spent reminiscing about the battles of bygone days.
Once a warrior, always a warrior. The rage kept surging at the most inopportune times. In the end, I resigned myself to living in a state of endless war.
And then, out of the blue, the battlefield fell silent. It unfolded like a film in slow motion: banners dropping, smoke clearing, wounds turning into stories etched on skin. Even as a filmmaker, I had never seen a transition this complete.
So, how did I find the cure for my anger? There was no life-altering experience—no self-help books, no guru’s techniques, no meditation retreats.
It happened in the confines of a corporate cubicle.
In a way, my liberation happened on the battleground itself, amidst fellow soldiers of the rage army.
Until not long ago, I was at the forefront, leading the rage army.
But then, like between two war cries, somewhere rage knelt before patience, and a battle that was never fought was won.
Amidst the chaos of clashing armies and needless bloodshed, I finally recognized the absurdity of my own battles. All around me, soldiers fought with blind fury, shouting war cries that had no target, charging at enemies that no longer existed.
Watching it unfold, I saw the mirror of my own campaigns—the arguments I had waged, the grudges I had carried, the meticulous battles that had consumed my days and nights.
In that moment, the weight of my own folly hit me: I had been leading a war with no enemy, fighting wounds that had already healed, and all the while pretending that the battlefield was still mine to conquer.
Around me, the bloodshed continued. Fragments of humanity flew in stabs and shrieks. The ground was littered with pieces of armor and remnants of strategies long forgotten, and yet the fighting continued, relentless and hollow. And before I realized it, I had dropped my armor.
Stripped of my strongest weapon—the logic backing my argument—I had a brief pause to see there were no nemeses left.
Whoever I had thought of as my nemesis had gone long ago. But I kept looking for enemies, even enlisting those who didn’t qualify.
That break in the war broke the momentum, and in the time I got to breathe, I realized the war was pointless.
I stood there, witnessing the rage all around me, and it just turned me immune.
Now, I can make sense of neither my rage nor theirs. And the one thing that had fueled it vanished without a trace.