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What rage means to me

I see my stop up ahead, yet I still begin to panic. Like the emotionally charged, overly paranoid person with unfounded aggressive tendencies that I am, I panic like a lunatic. There is no sighing with relief, no relaxing of muscles, no calmness knowing I will almost be home. There is only panic, for lord knows what reason. After 6 months I still can't figure it out. I sometimes convince myself it is just the remnants of a life living in a country where you are in constant mortal danger. Or maybe it is the anticipation of the cold gust of wind that smacks me in the face as I step off the bus. But generally, it is irrational panic, set on by the need to run away.

I have yet to fall in love with Sydney. I can say all the nice things, starting with the better standard of living and the great quality of life Australians are exposed too. I can talk about the fantastic feeling of being able to get up on a Sunday morning and walk a few steps to have breakfast at a cafe with the quaint atmosphere of local contentment and tranquility. I can go on and on about the exposure to art and entertainment so lacking on our shores. I can even drown myself and you with constant exclamations of the great fashion and style.

Yet there is no pitter-patter of my heart, except for the person lying next to me. I am waiting for this life to be filled. Filled with a thousand hearts marching for the rights of others. Filled with small fleeting moments of compassion. Filled with purpose beyond money, fame, and a brand name.

I'd give anything to sniff the Hong Wing filled air of Port of Spain. To walk up charlotte Street on Christmas Eve and attack a woman for her 2 inch plastic Christmas Tree. I miss the vagrant on the corner of Oxford Street and Henry Street, peeing on the pavement every morning before she walks to her vending spot. I want to drive up to the Coconut man by de big tree in Palmiste and shout for ah 2 litre bottle with all de jelly. I want to order Char Lee Chinee food and ask for curry chicken and fried rice.

I want a piece of home in my back pocket everyday, so I can take it out look at it and put it right back there safely.


Yes yes I want to rage. Rage against a life of obscurity. Rage for my life. The one I had and the one that is still to come.

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