this is not a rant.
you most likely wouldn’t know it. sometimes, i do get angry. i do, really. angry at little things that wouldn’t or shouldn’t matter to other people. like angry at a dream i had last night about unclogging a toilet, and the stuff just kept bubbling up. that was the entirety of it. like my inability to express my anger in written words. or just feelings. words don’t do well enough. they are never enough, and that makes me angry. i get angry at noise. at the presence of others around me. at the fact that my family expects and knows me to be a-sweet-little-thing. at myself, when i change according to the people i am around. to suit them in the moment, instead of suiting my voice. but i don’t know what my true voice is. but i do, and it’s so quiet, no one will listen. people don’t like to listen up. so i have to speak up, force myself out of some made-up shell while wearing a funny mask and i don’t like that. it hurts my body in a way–saps my bones dry. and so i get angry about needing space. like it is wrong and i should feel guilty. but that is when i am me and i can’t help it. i’m selfish and sometimes i even wish everyone could do as i say and as i want; i wish this world conformed to my desires because i am needy, without knowing what exactly i need. there is anger, too, at time passing. yet i keep the broken clock on the wall because the second-hand soothes me. i keep reading about the world and how many many things show the opposite of a place where people help others and humanity is some kind of woven plane that listens, and gives their body a chance to be still. i keep my hands in my lap and my head down, keep the door closed. but in the closeness, don’t your shoulders feel less tight, and your lungs easier?