I'm angry.
I'm angry that I can't write. That my room doesn't understand the meaning of organization and storage. That whenever I take a step towards Control, I lose myself and when I am with me again, I'm something else entirely. I'm angry that I'm ambitious and lack everything else, that I'm lofty and I need and I'm too human, that I can't be more. I'm angry that I get angry when we reach a part of me that I don't want to walk to.
I'm angry that I can't appreciate the beauty of my own struggling.
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