Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
What cannot be preserved when fortune takes
Patience her injury a mockery makes.
Othello, Act I, Scene III
I am surrounded, it seems, by an inordinate number of hot heads. These are people for whom the word trivial never precedes conflict. They make mountains of mole hills, then claim the credit for mastering so marvelous a summit. Failure only enlarges an obstacle to the point where even the smallest of obstructions can threaten to derail critical endeavors. Pride becomes an end in of itself, an all-consuming concern made all the more implaccable with its divorce from reason.
I myself am, of course, not free from such sentiments, but I take it as a tenant of proper living that they lead only to ruin. Annoyance I find rises within me easily, but it departs just as freely. I am rarely moved to true anger, and to my credit I find the feeling difficult to abide. In the end, I just don't feel there's much worth getting so worked up over.