When I was younger, my emotions often got the best of me. At some point, I became tired of crying, and learned to embrace anger, as I saw my dad had done. I hated myself as that person too, but I think anger had its place then – it did help prevent me from becoming everyone’s doormat. I believe it also captured the passion I felt inside, even if that passion was most often displayed as fits of rage. It meant something had touched me.
I learned to let go of my anger over time, but then I became worried that I wasn’t feeling much at all. The indifference to the world issue. Had all my passion left me?
Recently, I think I’ve realized I’m not truly indifferent; I’m just constantly scared to let someone into my heart. Pretending I don’t care what happens makes it easier. On the surface at least. I can’t fool myself, though.
I wish I was a person who could be casual about things, but I can’t. When something happens, for better or for worse, I want to shout it off the rooftop! Well, maybe not everything, but you get the idea. And maybe I should be glad. Maybe the fact that I’ve been feeling all sorts of things lately means my passion is returning. One can hope.