Since my great aunt died at 98 earlier this month I have been experiencing surprising versions of anger.
At one point I was incensed by the English Language. Why did I have to know it, live my life via this medium, be defined by it and by my accent when uttering it? What choice did I have about it and how could I get it out of my head?
That sort of complaint is a bit like the ant shaking its tiny fist at the mountain it is standing on.
My mind surprised me again this afternoon by revealing that I am envious of and implacably opposed to the Earth and the Sun. How dare they have so much longer lives than me? I may be a physical product of them and be entirely dependent upon their thought-free, neutral, literally heartless selves, but I am appalled at the fragility of living creatures' minds and destinies compared to these vast chemical lumps which we are part of.