They say I look like glass—clear, collected, unmoved by the world’s vibration. They don’t see it: the tectonic friction beneath. I walk like a museum display, preserved, measured, admired, as if calm is a natural state. But calm is not my nature. It’s a damn disguise I grew skin-tight.

Imagine this: I’m the Pacific—not the peaceful postcard blue, but the trench beneath it. Mariana-deep. Down there it’s pressurized chaos, old things stirring. Plate against plate. Molten screaming through gaps in the bedrock. But you won’t hear it. You’ll hear only the tide lapping politely at your feet.

What they see is posture, silence, poise. But I’m an architect of emotional architecture, hiding fire behind symmetry. I’ve turned rage into an art form so precise, it looks like patience. I’ve learned to speak with my eyes half-shut, because if they open wide—hell spills out. Every syllable would be a shard. Every breath a rupture. You ever hear a volcano scream? No, you hear the wind. You hear the birds flee. That’s me. A man whose smile is a seismic lie.

My calm is a thermal cap. A pressure dome. A silent pact with the earth not to destroy what’s above me. Because underneath, I’m magma with memories, a thousand injustices boiling red. Someone says the wrong thing, steps too heavy, and a fissure appears. But I patch it quick—humor, charm, stillness. They think I’m being polite. No, I’m trying not to detonate.

You see, rage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it sips coffee, nods politely, gives good advice. My rage wears shoes, goes to work, loves people. But it also dreams of fault lines cracking open and swallowing fake smiles whole.

I’m not a man trying to stay calm.

I’m a goddamn volcano praying no one ever figures out how close they are to the blast zone.