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anger, rage, and sometimes self-control.

And if one day, pretending that I do not care, began to let it flow, like a river of hot lava that there is nothing if not burned twigs, my anger?
I'm always afraid of not being able to control, in my little microcosm, the spark that ignites the anger, that home omen of wildfires. I'm always afraid, I admit candidly, to go beyond the point of no return that would horrify my friends, I'm afraid to fall victim to those fine speeches in m'infarcisco head. Because, as I try to contain them, my thoughts often turn toward evil, toward violence, toward the misfortunes and disasters. My thoughts are far from good, I wish I could throw that junk in junk: and though a moment before I was happy and at peace, one word can trigger an inner hell.

I still can not understand why something happens like this: my life, despite its ups and downs, can not be considered unfortunate, simply because I have pretty much everything I need. I have no basic needs, I can tell partially met me, yet the beast keeps rodermi in, and I think that excavations, going deeper and deeper inside my bowels.

And I just said, during an argument, "But why do you always have with us the We ?". And I was there alone. I.
Why I identified in Us? Who is there besides me? My anger? My constant thought of anger and fury subsided and ransom, which is well hidden but never disappears? My ongoing grudge against a self that is never enough compared to my expectations, of those who are around me, even those who love me? About This is where we can not give shape?

Why can not I do without this anger? When I leave everything there, without reacting, to see the world with what I was calm zen, the world is watching me with astonished eyes and I do not recognize. I'm really so evidently the daughter of my resentment? The only forces that move me are perhaps blind anger and mean, although I keep to myself and not allowing it to exit, except when pressed sometimes so strong that if you did not let it die emerge?

And because I do not feel good either when I vent, or when I'm holding?

I only know ... nothing. I know nothing.

And now that the anger is gone, and I read these words with more clarity, I'm seriously thinking of leaving this text among the thousands of others that nobody reads, and make it gather dust.
But then I think maybe in the future, reading these words, I could get something good. I could go one step further along a hypothetical path. I might be able to fight this side of me that m'imbruttisce.

do not know if I do well, but I grant you this part of me.
After all, I am still; nonstante all, I do.

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a small facet. The Journey Begins and that

"[...] m looked like a revenge on all the friction and passive resistance and the disappointments that I had damaged until that time, at all le cose che non mi piacevano e non mi appartenevano e mi rendevano difficile la vita. Pensavo che alla fine era questo che avevo sempre cercato, da quando ero un bambino acutamente infelice in uno scenario che mi sembrava estraneo fin nei più minuti particolari: non essere solo, fare parte di un piccolo gruppo di persone simili; ripararmi, farmi trascinare, scorprirmi un ruolo, mettere in gioco le capacità che avevo dentro allo stato dormiente."

da Di Noi Tre
di Andrea De Carlo

E mi riconosco in questo frammento, che è una mia piccola sfaccettatura. Forse non la migliore, nemmeno la più interessante, ma comunque una parte di me.
Perchè Livio, the novel's protagonist, like me in a frightening, in many, many things. It is also diametrically opposed in many others. Why
, feeling a little 'Livy, I find a kind of energy to improve, and in every book I find a "Livio" that look like, let me recognize my mistakes and overcome them.

Because for all my mistake I gain a bit of life, and for every solution glue to join all these pieces.

Because even if I do not know yet who I am, I can begin to take shape.