I used to see anger like rolling thunder—precluded with curling, spitting skies, and a rumble so deafening your heart would quiver. A warning, a war cry, a natural effect of collision. A countdown to the final blow. I've been a bag of emotions lately. The predominant feeling I'm longing to tackle is this anger, but I have found that it's something of a nine-headed beast that isn't always easily identifiable—namely, it's been my method of coping and dealing with everything, no matter the true emotion lurking meekly beneath the fury. I have come to find that it's quieter counterpart to thunder. It's splitting strokes of lightning, young threads pulsing through my own currents. My actions are an attempt to discharge it, and I only cause more collisions, more bolts swirling in my dark matter. I yell, say words that sting, unhinge my jaw and sink my teeth unto the helpless—and I create more friction, therein, I never feel better. This isn't a pity party, although I am apt to throw one of those a little too often. In my existential quest to attempt self-discovery and find my ultimate purpose as a microbial being living on a dust mote in this expansive, never-ending universe—I've found a little something at the crescendo of these furious storms. A birds eye view of my past, my present, and even a smudge of my future. Is it indulgent to say that this all started with my own parents? A little, because I would like to think that it's not my fault. Yet, so would they—nothing was ever their fault, they don't remember, it was out of their control, and if they did mean it, you deserved it. In my childhood, you obeyed anger, but you were never allowed to be angry. If something bad happened, you forgave and never held a grudge. My present has been a hallowing and humbling look at cause and effect. There are twenty-seven known human emotions and I am still so angry. I am angry... When I am marginally inconvenienced. When I am anxious and don't feel safe. When I am failing and frustrated. When I am not feeling heard. When I am in pain. When my boundaries are crossed. When something is wrong. That's when I've realized that maybe I'm not actually feeling angry all the time, but rather, reacting angrily when I am on red alert. It's not bad to be angry, although it can be a mistake to react in anger. Anger tells you that something isn't right, it jumpstarts the fight or flight instincts in you and forces you to make a choice. We can't always see through the storm, though. Sometimes, we have to make a plan and wait it out. Intuitively, I know that I need to move myself out of the path of destruction. This means realizing that I need to take responsibility for my actions, for my feelings, and for the way I treat others. The time has passed for a relationship with my parents, but I can draw from our interactions as a guideline on how not to treat others. I can learn that forgiveness and boundaries happily co-exist. That being angry can drive change, but reacting angrily drives people away. I'm deciding to replace my hostile words and reactions with grit. When I am failing, frustrated, or inconvenienced, I will persevere. When I am anxious, not feeling heard, in pain, I will have courage. When boundaries are crossed, when something is wrong, when it's not safe, I will follow through and do the right thing. When I eventually find all of these things to be difficult to do, I will be resilient. And maybe—just maybe, I'll discover shimmering pearls swirling underneath.

The bare bones of writing comes down to expressing a thought, idea, or feeling. We use it to communicate with others, as a way to convey a message we find important or personal. The bare bones doesn't care about brilliance, complexity, mistakes, or your chosen medium (pen and paper, anyone?). It's significant in only having written your word or words of choice, and the rest—be it a masterpiece, or just a grocery list—is up to you. When I was a teenager, the act of writing was a way to release, and to entertain myself. I wrote stories with characters that accurately, if not dramatically, conveyed the emotions that I had a hard time expressing in my adolescence. The themes crossed paths with things I experienced, and things that I anticipated to experience. It was my world, glittering and bright, even through the dark themes and circumstances that were written. While I didn't know it at the time, it was an important self-reflection through elaborate plot lines and quirky characters. It didn't matter that it wasn't what I had deemed publish-worthy. All that mattered was that I conveyed my feelings, and sometimes shared them with others—and with that, catharsis. I stopped writing like that years ago. These days, writing has become something of a chore. The pressures I put upon myself to just write something good, or even better than good, made my joy burn out like a candle wick. I put writing on hold while my life unraveled into the milestone of young adulthood. Through it all, I'm certain that my life would have a clearer direction, and my soul a happier glow, had I written... anything. No matter what though, I couldn't bring myself to do it, even if it were simply “Today sucked.” The desire to create was burning in my veins, but my self doubt riddled me with a hate plague I couldn't shake. Taking a look back, I knew I yearned simply for life experience. I wanted to experience without reflection, even if that took me through a lot of impulsive choices that I regret now. It also took work to sit down, focus, and write. Now, with the desire to be heard, to be seen as articulate, and with something to offer, I still struggle. The fear of a page written with utter garbage is a greater fear than of an empty one. And I want to change that—even if the page is merely filled with one word, I'll know I've put forth an effort to say something. In today's world, where everyone puts out their best image, their best work, and the edited, filtered versions of themselves—I vow to allow myself to be raw, messy, mediocre, and riddled with mistakes. To speak what's on my mind, to dare to create, to do. It's now my time for honesty, even if it masquerades as a poem, a crime drama screenplay, an essay, or an account of my day. The bare bones are all that matter, and even if to no avail, it all ends up in a graveyard—then, at least for a moment, they lived.