The thin red line

Ever wonder how thin a line is that separates frustrate and infuriate?

If you study the etymology of both words, there’s not much correlation other than the end result. The word frustrate was conceived in 1447 from the Latin word frustatus that means to “deceive or disappoint.” Infuriate, meanwhile, was coined 200 years later from the Latin word infuriate or “to madden.”

Sure there’s no connection but when you examine the root word of frustrate which is fraus, you get the literal translation “injury or harm.” Isn’t that the consequence of rage? Sooner or later, you put yourself or others in harm’s way.

And you know what’s interesting? When you detach and spell out the missing letters that separate the two words, we get S-I-N, maybe to explain the jump between plain frustration to infuriation, if we have to be all religious about the whole thing.

What’s my point? Well, I’m now teetering on the edge of a precipice – standing on the thin line between frustration and infuriation; a step away from the tempest ahead while looking back longingly at my own footprints imprinting their mark on my bruised ego.

I look at my footprints and I realize that I know each indentation and ridges all too well. I know that my right foot leaves the bigger dent because of an anomaly in the way I walk. My walk, even to the most observant eye, may appear even but that’s not true. My right heel crooked downwards by force of gravity every time I take a step as my left shoulder and hips rotate while struggling to compensate. The impression my right foot creates – from heel, instep, sole and the hallux — is deeper than my left foot.

You know how models are taught to walk the straight line? That’s how I strive to walk so that the weight of my steps shifts on the outside soles.

I brought up the subject of my walk because when I cross that thin line towards rage, my walk would be insignificant since fury has a way of making me dash like a rabid dog on crack. The rush of adrenaline you get is not unlike the lightheaded feeling of somebody who’s high on drugs.

Under the influence of anger, you don’t walk. You fly.  

Never mind the amount of destruction on fury’s trail as realization sets in after the level of adrenaline subsides. I say, that’s a collateral damage. If the government is allowed to kill civilians in its war against communist insurgency and chalk it up in the name of collateral damage, I don’t see why I can’t leave behind some bleeding hearts and battered self-worth. If you dance with the devil, prepare to get burned. Besides, I miss the rush.

As if you didn’t know, rage is addictive, too.