randomeer: Random_Guy
It was a Wednesday — a Wednesday of all days. Nothing ever happens on a Wednesday. But when we all awoke from our sleeps on that Wednesday morning, things seemed different, more charming. For some people it took a while to realise what had happened; for others, not much time at all. That chirping bird in the garden that you normally hate hearing every morning because it’s so drearily happy didn’t bother you so much today. The kettle refusing to boil didn’t bother you. Even the neighbour’s dog barking at absolutely nothing didn’t bother you.
Across the street, Mrs. Halpern dropped an entire bag of shopping. Tins rolled into the road, a bottle of milk burst like a tiny dairy grenade, and instead of shouting at the sky she just laughed — a soft, delighted giggle, as if she’d been waiting her whole life for an excuse to let go of something heavy.
Social media was such a delight that first day too. Just people posting their happy selves doing their happy lives. No vitriol in the comments, just rather nice compliments. Even the trolls seemed to have taken a day off, as if the entire internet had been gently sedated.
After a week it was clear to everyone what had happened, even though no one could understand why. It was like the world had been given a massive injection of Prozac. Our feelings, our emotions — how could one emotion just disappear overnight? The conspiracy theorists immediately blamed the government and, of course, aliens. The scientists blamed a rogue comet’s tail. But nobody knew for sure.
For the first few months, it was honestly lovely. A golden age of politeness. People held doors, queued properly, let each other speak. Arguments evaporated before they even formed. Cities felt wrapped in bubble‑wrap.
But then something strange began to happen. Not dramatic. Not sudden. Just… a slowing.
Sports became an overnight joke. Football and rugby lost that edgy, anger‑induced bite that made them worth watching. Boxing promoters gave up — two fighters apologising to each other wasn’t selling tickets. Even tennis lost its spark; serene rallies drifted on for hours until both players quietly agreed to call it a draw.
And the rest of life followed. Ideas stopped sparking. Projects stalled. Broken things stayed broken because nobody felt that sharp little jolt of “this isn’t good enough” that normally kicks humans into action.
It turned out anger — the mild kind, the righteous kind, the “I can’t live with it like this” kind — had been the quiet engine behind everything. Without it, humanity drifted into a pleasant, harmless standstill.
We eventually realised that without a little anger, something human in us dies a little every day — and that passion and anger aren’t really that separate after all.
