The view in our youth may be pure, but the toothache of age will keep you awake at night, chewing. Who you are is who you were. Who you were is who you wanted to be. Who you wanted to be was anything other than what you feared you would become. But here we are. Transparent and bathed in violet life and violent light and torn between escaping and masochism. Enduring and rebranding that one pain something more masochistic. Are you certain of that truth? That one defining truth? There comes a moment in every person's life where they are forced to face that one inarguable truth of their definition, inspecting it for what it has become, having been carried this far.

We are not always who we appear to be. Especially not to ourselves. Beauty is found when you need it, but never before and your own anger will lead you to it. I tend not to believe those who say anger is worthless. For we are not worthless, with that common ballast. It's a cauldron. It's a a forge. A volume.

A chance. Energy. Freedom.