NOISE

Inconsistent thuds crescendo-ing (?) into crashes that rattle the skinny hands on my clocks until finally, out of an uncontrollable impulse, I provide the final blow to the wall with a closed fist sending a small black faced clock off the wall and into shattered glass on the floor, which needs swept any way.  It's at this moment that I go into the bathroom and stare at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror and wonder why the noises produce such a fiery response; a response that is only barely released by punching the wall; a response that really requires me to thrash my entire body into and through the wall, but knowing the ramifications I use only my small claw-like fists to carry out the action leaving enormous amounts of energy flowing and brewing in my bones, then settling into my heart, where they sleep until the next response is triggered.  It's something I've tried to cope with and work out of my system via exercise and meditation, but for some reason it is so built up that I'm merely releasing the steam on a boiling fire of rage that hopefully will never be released, at least, hopefully, not all at once.  When I think of the triggers, they seem to be related quite directly with sound and noise.  NOISE.  It is the most therapeutic remedy as well as the greasy trigger finger resting on the cold steel hammer, slipping slipping slipping.  A humming furnace or a consistent whooshing fan keep me sane and  help me sleep, but the Mexican girl's suicide sprints and thuds send me into a loony state of insanity.  Music, if good music, can rest my gentle senses.  Music, if bad music, can make me act like a totally different person.  NOISE.  Oh noise, please be kind to me.