Deeply within my being, I will reopen my notebook. Its pages wait to be filled with the rawness of my anger, letting each word spill out like a torrent of emotion, messy and untamed. The ink will bleed across the paper, forming poems that are imperfect, yet entirely mine. Or perhaps, I’ll turn to my sketchbook—its cover worn and its pages crease with age, but still holding space for whatever I need to pour onto them. With every stroke of the pencil, I will breathe life back into it, sketching the chaos inside me in shapes and lines only I can understand. I may not be a great poet, nor a skilled painter, and I am aware of my limitations, but that doesn't matter. With each mark, I’ll capture the fire within me. Not as something to fear, but as something to embrace and shape. I will be exactly what I need to be, someone who channels the storms inside into something creative, something beautiful. The anger, though fierce, becomes the very fuel that drives me to create. It will no longer be a weight, but a spark igniting my art, giving me something lasting to hold onto, and reminding me that even the darkest emotions can lead to something bright. Art may not always be perfect, but it will be real, and it will be mine.