Cannot squeeze the life from me

I don't think I'll ever be able to make bowing down to cold rationality a rule. And I doubt that anyone will be able to teach me.

I have too much of a temper. I fire up, and I do destructive things, and I blast away at seemingly stable foundations completely forgetting what built them. My temper, my agitation, they buffet and chase my mind to all types of desperation, and I yearn to crash and burn in a billion ways, to turn myself into complete chaos, to fiercely rip through that what in my rage appears as grey mass. I take no heed and ravage to bits that which I only shortly earlier treasured.

This is not the quality of "passion", which - of late a romanticised, poetic notion - is only seen in favourable light. It is perhaps to the now lost, darker and more undesirable associations of the idea of passion which I can relate. All the sins lay open to me in my fits.

Subdued, I am a quiet, automatic thing. I give you happiness and pleasure mechanically, disconnected.

Edit: Perhaps not even that, now.