An Idealist in a Rage Room — Entry #1
Frustration, Irritation, Vexation, Exasperation, Annoyance, Agitation, Anger, Stress, Regret and an Idealist — what do they have in common?
‘Stress at work? Did your boss shout? Uncaring family? Break down the walls, literally, and find relief, try the Rage room! 20% discount for first-time customers! Check out for early bird discounts!’ reads the pamphlet. The idealist sighs. It’s going to be a long day.
Life is long. Or short. Depending on how you view it. For the moments' people are happy, satisfied, contended, in bliss, perhaps euphoria, life seems too short, any accident, a devastating tragedy, thinks the idealist. For others, life becomes a chore at a point, you are surviving, answering, eating, sleeping, surviving, and again. The idealist has gotten old. But in a stark play of fate, his mind has become agitated instead of mellowing down. For why else would he feel such unguarded anger, whispering at the seams, ready to burst out & burn? Why would words start grating on his nerves the further they extend? Why would he want to run and find nowhere to? Yes, I am growing old, pondered the idealist.
For there was no logical explanation for what the idealist was experiencing. By the grace of whatever higher power, the idealist never encountered any big misfortune. Nor was there any tear-jerking incident to write home about. Just normal things. Just little things. Which have become pieces of glass under his soles. Doing nothing not being an option.
The idealist knew that the frustrations inside his mind were not just simmering when he thought of the term ‘pests’ in a context different from agriculture. Perhaps people who are not stuck to a certain way of life like me think like this all the time. The idealist tried to console his mind. But his moral compass was old, grey, and pristine. The high horse of his integrity would call it grave. So, the idealist went around the town and discovered what they called a rage room.
The rage/anger/demolition room (to the Idealist’s horror, there were crying rooms as well) was a place to quite peacefully, smash, crash, and break objects in a room inside an establishment to vent out frustrations for a period of time and a good fee. They even offered packages! Once upon a time, a younger version of the idealist may have balked upon the mere mention, and would have called it ‘entitled mental corrosiveness’. But the idealist’s collar was worn down by life. The buttons barely hang. He judged himself cynically, ‘has my life become this boring that a shred of excitement can make me turn my back to beliefs I have held for so long?’
When going through a bad phase, the easiest thing to do is blame. The misfortune of our lives can always be attributed to something, people, governments, world, circumstances, fate, anything but ourselves. Because if we were to blame ourselves, that would be putting stones in the huge sack of sorrow we’re already stowing. The idealist pondered the idiosyncrasies of life, the shades of living, a life on a lease and a life fully owned, and being blind to the differences. Standing in front of the posh building that looked everything unlike what he expected of a rage room, the idealist blamed his friend for planting the foolhardy idea in his head. Two seconds and a teaspoon of guilt later, he saw his reflection on the shiny surface of the building, and wondered if sometimes our shadows shine brighter than us.
A car honked on the road, and swept the idealist into a whirlwind of memories. The glistening trophy, the shy smile, the fearsome outrage, the unwanted ring, the free responsibility, the lost moment, the unheard cry. The kaleidoscope was so enchanting that reminiscing the past was a welcome reprieve to the burden of the present. And it hurt all the more. What have I come to? The idealist thought. The traffic light turned red. And the idealist walked towards the bus stop opposite to the rage room.
My life will not amount to this, a fool determined.
