Jan 12
I have always carried within me a rage that defies reason, an anger born of shadows, with no beginning and no end. It surges through my veins like wildfire, an untamed purgatory that feeds on every emotion I offer it. Sadness becomes its kindling, joy its fleeting fuel; even love is not safe from its hunger. This fire lives in me, relentless and unyielding, a storm of embers that scorches every corner of my soul.
I do not know why I am like this. Why must I always be the tempest when I long to be the breeze? Why am I the hurricane, destructive and wild, when I yearn to be the soft whisper of the wind, soothing and free? I dream of peace, of stillness, of a moment where my spirit is not clawing at the walls of its cage. But peace slips through my fingers like smoke, intangible and cruel.
I want to matter. I ache for purpose, for meaning, for a reason to silence the roar inside me. I long to love without fear and to be loved without condition. To matter enough that someone, anyone, would stop and see me—not the mask I wear, but the fractured, burning soul beneath.
But they don’t see me. They see the shell I’ve constructed, the armour I’ve forged to keep my fire from spilling out. They see a calm that is a lie, a stillness that hides a thousand storms. And even if they did see, even if they glimpsed the chaos within, would they stay? Or would they flee, as so many have before, unable to face the inferno?
The fire rages on, unstoppable, insatiable. I want to scream into the void until my voice is nothing but ashes. I want to tear down the heavens and let the world feel the fury that has been my curse. Let it burn, let it break, let it crumble. Maybe then they’d see, maybe then they’d understand.
But I know, deep down, that even if the world turned to ash, this fire would remain. It is as much a part of me as the air I breathe, the blood in my veins. It is my companion and my prison, my torment and my truth. And though I dream of soft winds and calm waters, I fear I will always be the storm, raging and alone.
I do not know why I am like this. Why must I always be the tempest when I long to be the breeze? Why am I the hurricane, destructive and wild, when I yearn to be the soft whisper of the wind, soothing and free? I dream of peace, of stillness, of a moment where my spirit is not clawing at the walls of its cage. But peace slips through my fingers like smoke, intangible and cruel.
I want to matter. I ache for purpose, for meaning, for a reason to silence the roar inside me. I long to love without fear and to be loved without condition. To matter enough that someone, anyone, would stop and see me—not the mask I wear, but the fractured, burning soul beneath.
But they don’t see me. They see the shell I’ve constructed, the armour I’ve forged to keep my fire from spilling out. They see a calm that is a lie, a stillness that hides a thousand storms. And even if they did see, even if they glimpsed the chaos within, would they stay? Or would they flee, as so many have before, unable to face the inferno?
The fire rages on, unstoppable, insatiable. I want to scream into the void until my voice is nothing but ashes. I want to tear down the heavens and let the world feel the fury that has been my curse. Let it burn, let it break, let it crumble. Maybe then they’d see, maybe then they’d understand.
But I know, deep down, that even if the world turned to ash, this fire would remain. It is as much a part of me as the air I breathe, the blood in my veins. It is my companion and my prison, my torment and my truth. And though I dream of soft winds and calm waters, I fear I will always be the storm, raging and alone.
