My Insides Are Breathing Fire and Other Unfortunate Truths

I am so flipping angry.

I don’t know what what, why, towards whom (most likely, myself) or how long it’s been going on, but it’s there, burning in the back of my throat till I want to scream. I can feel my insides coiled with tension, turning into tighter and tighter rings as if the stress of the many lives I want to live, my hopes and dreams, have banded together and turned putrid – morphed into a cancerous, carnivorous, voracious monster ready to cut me open.

Okay, so I lied – I think I do know why. I am wanting. I know it sounds passive, but it isn’t. It’s ardent and forceful and bursting with aggression. It’s in every breath I take, every sigh, in the pressure with which I press down on these keys. It’s in the harsh meter of my heartbeat, in the clip of my voice, in the flat hatred in my words. It’s in the way my hair whips across my face unrestrained because the task of tying it back with a hairband is too much for my shaking fists.

I can’t, I won’t let my brain take a break because I’ve had so many breaks. I’ve had months worth of breaks, days of tapping keys and backspacing, hours of time spent thinking about my stories instead of putting words on paper. I’m worried that as soon as I stop and take a breather, that breather will last the rest of my life, and then where will I be? The thought of that nowhere, of that failure, of that person who has no one to blame other than herself makes my blood pump furiously. That’s not the person I want to be.

Instead, I’ve turned into this crazy fiend; internally, I am Aunt Marge ballooning up with nothing to tether me to sweet, wholesome, grounding earth. Hooray!

I want to throw myself into life, but instead of living I think I’ve turned that want into my own personal battering ram – and I have the ego bruises to prove it. But before I give the impression of a basket case (lol awkward, it’s too late) or that I’ve turned to pitying myself, you should know that all I feel in this moment is more anger. Guys, this is pathetic. (Okay, I’m also thinking that in this moment I could probably fire bend, but that’s not relevant.) It’s silly. Oscar Wilde is screaming at me that life is much too important to take so seriously. Angelina freaking Jolie is telling me to breathe a little. I need to relax. I need some yoga or a really sharp slap on the face. I need some peace. Because all I’m doing right now is cutting away at strings of possibility.

It’s been less than a month, and 2016 has already been one hell of a rollercoaster.

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4 thoughts on “My Insides Are Breathing Fire and Other Unfortunate Truths

  1. I saw Jenny Han read over the summer. Her best writing advice was to try to be very present in your emotions. From the way you write about your feelings, I think you’ve got this piece of advice figured out already.

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