Man In Angry Tub

Steam choked the bathroom mirror, which didn't matter since I had turned out the light. The water held the kind of heat that hurts your skin when you move, so I laid frozen. I was Red with anger, which felt as foreign as the bath. As I soaked in the pitch black heat, I heard a voice in my head that said "be still."

Time halted, and I remembered that dipping my ears under the water offers a kind of silence that I used to love. Silence is the sky when the sun sets. A welcome balance to commotion. At that moment I truly appreciated that if sound is silver, then silence is gold.

All these thoughts seemed to drip out my ears and mix with the water. I struggled to find a position where my entire body would fit below the surface, which is precisely when I realized the comedic absurdity of the entire situation. My temper tantrum was a tub that didn't quite fit. Still, I think it vital to outpour emotions, and to experience them to the fullest.

As time passed, I realized that both the water and my anger cooled. Anger is like bathwater: both cool over time, and one must not sit in either for too long. Wisdom is stillness when sitting in the Red. I could have splashed about on other people, but what good is accomplished by burning others?

Instead: I laughed at my silliness, dried off, and cleanly went to bed.