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reach out... — Description

Anger.
Do you know how long I watched it before it transformed into something easier to understand?
Twenty-one years.
That doesn't mean I'm not angry anymore.
I am angrier at the world than I have ever been.
Rage fuels my veins.
But the quiet moments—when the fire no longer burns—bring me peace and make me think there is a way out of this mess.
It is a path full of thorns, flames, and anger.
A whole lot of anger.
But a way out is a way out.
And hope dies last.
I will observe this anger; I will analyze it.
I will sit down and think carefully before I act.
I will spend a lot of time on it.
I will wake up and realize it was never anger.
Not ever.
It was pain that had nowhere to go but into my own veins, the very pain that fueled me all these years.
To some extent, I should be grateful to have had the chance to meet it, this anger, no?
What else could have kept me alive all these years?
Hope?
A beautiful thing, a beautiful disaster...
It certainly dies last, in most cases.
But mere hope wouldn't have gotten me this far.
So, this pain I chose to disguise as anger drove me to places hope never could.
But one day, the anger will die, and the pain will be evident.
I will rely on hope then, since it will probably still be alive.
But for now, don't mind this anger; don't pay attention to it.
It exists because I, too, still exist.
And one day, we will shake our scarred hands and leave each other alone.
Alone.
Again.
I. L.
@Iviwrites