Grawlix

They’re not done following you, these childish angers, like stormy weather pushing in, memories hovering near the edge of the panel, peripheral to the eye. Sharp cornered, nonsensical, yet fully understood, where you go they follow, intersecting with the comical ires of others, jangling, crashing, onomatopoetic even though they employ exactly zero letters. Hieroglyphic, they convey feelings kids shouldn’t have to have words for. Frustration, despair, futility, disappointment, resignation, dread at the expectation you must pound at dollars and exclaim! In a funny way, these pencilled rages aren’t even profane. Exclusive to life off the page, spelled-out curses match the emanata, wafterons, and freakishly isolated thunderheads adults drag along behind them. You wish you could lose these dark thought clouds, but they are vital, are part of what explains the bead of sweat inked into the skin of your fucking temple.