Anger, as an emotion, is a powerful, malevolent, useless instrument.
Especially, when it is an anger turned inward.
I get mad at myself all of the time. I hold myself to such a high standard in my head, almost impossible to meet, that I set myself up for disappointment.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda – ultimately ends up in didn’t – and didn’t comes with loads of regret.
This turmoil is all in my head. The plight of the artist at work in its most free, public self.
So turning anger at myself leads me to lose sleep.
I toss, I turn, I toss some more, I turn until there is no more turning to do.
My mind is like a department store where blue light specials are going on continuously, jumping from one subject to another. The lack of focus as I beg for sleep is scary if you are not me.
Then it is time to get up.
The departments seem to find order and erase the chaos. What seemed troubling is now surmountable. What provided worry is now fixable. What prompted regret can be remedied in the future. Nothing is impossible as the blood flows through my veins and I embrace morning.
Morning brings perspective.
But the lack of sleep is still there. After my morning shower, after getting dressed for work and having breakfast, in that lull of time that exists between leaving the house and the moment I am writing this, I wish for sleep.
So I get mad because I lost my time for slumber. I will never get it back.
I live with this regret of a wasted, meaningless time that kept me up.
I am angry.
I bravely face this new frontier as I embrace the voyages I will enjoy today.
But somewhere on my journey i will hold on to the anger that started all of this last night when I could not sleep.
And this collective lack of sleep, perpetuating its presence somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, is known as the wrath of Juan.