Tempest

WHAT does one do to control the wild, irrational exclamations of his soul? I ask myself that same question, but could not resolve as I too seek the answer.

IT'S weird. The cerebrum seems to be quietly whispering to me that my emotions are all messed about (yes, messed about- that's what our teacher told us as messed up refers to the err...serious mental defect), but an inner instinct, the heart, as they say (but I do not want to call it that way since I believe that the heart is primarily an organ), shouts and screams that I release the hot fumes of anger within my mortal carapace, and icy billows of loneliness. That seems most appropriate if I really do aim to accomplish my assigned tasks for the night.

THE big conundrum is "how?". How do you express something undeniably wrong? How can I release my worries and anxieties, when I myself do not think that it is justifiable. I am the one who's wrong, the one who does not wish to accept the changes that have happened, the one who refuses to forget the past in spite of the blinding pain it inflicts, and the one who demands for concern when "it" really shouldn't be asked for. Yet I only ask little for that. There's none, sadly.

SO I turn to writing, that all-great hobby of poets, novelists, presidents, actors, and so many more, that have truly inspired and shaped the world. The end product? It works. Writing is, as I have proven, more than a venue for meeting the requirements of school, or the workplace. Moreover, it is a way of the soul to express itself, to get rid of the pain it has trapped inside.