My emotions; my friends.


I have a friend. Everybody tells me I should dump this friend, dump them good and proper, but I like this friend (tautology?), I like them a lot. I’m not sure when we met but as far as I can remember, this friend has stood by my side, encouraged me to stand up for myself, helped me through the times in my life when I’ve lacked motivation and generally given me reason to get out of bed in the mornings. Her name is Anger.

Anger is a woman with many faces and many forms. Sometimes she’s as small as a mouse and just as quiet, other times she’s like a raging forest fire roaring through me with white heat. But always she keeps me motivated, determined and defiant.

It’s Anger who keeps my head up in the face of your judgement, it’s Anger who keeps me determined to succeed in response to your doubting, it’s Anger who tells me that your opinion doesn’t matter and it’s Anger that convinces me to defy expectations of what I should or shouldn’t be.

Ofcourse, it would be unhealthy and unnatural if I didn’t have other friends. I’m particularly in love with Whimsy who floats in and out of  my life as fragile as a butterfly, bringing me small beautiful thoughts of snowflakes and dark woods. I’m also fond of Humour who drinks bitter black coffee, smokes ten a day and huskily whispers acerbic one liners in my ear at the most inopportune moments.

My emotions are my friends. I have worked hard to make my emotions my friends. And frankly, like all friendships, outsiders are not privy to the inner workings of our relationship and I resent their interference.

(Note: Feel free to intervene if I go after innocent members of the public with a tomahawk on the say so of Anger and with the dark laughter of Humour ringing in my ears)

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