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Overwhelmed. Like, a little. Or maybe a lot.

 I'm so tired. I have too much on my plate. Again. And, as much as I hate to admit it, it all feels like a chore. I have all these goals and dreams and needs and wants and I don't know how to get there. I want to change the world but I'm also caught in the teenage sinkhole of taking as many classes as possible, piling on the APs, trying to be the best at everything I do. And somewhere along the path, I lost my love for these things. 

So if I do anything in these coming days, it is in the hopes that I can reignite the fire that once burned beneath me, gently nudging me up at first, and then pushing me up, up and beyond the clouds and into the atmosphere. I hope that I smell the burning rubber of my wasted efforts and the tears I have cried for fake dreams and chores. I hope that I watch the vibrant colors of my helium balloon pierce the damp, gray clouds. I hope that I slice through the agitation and the pain and the exhaustion, and remind myself what a beautiful sight passion is. 

I will reignite the flames that once licked my toes, breathing oxygen and energy into me. The flames that have now turned to ravaging wildfires that burn through Australia and California and turn the world to ash, forbidding hope and only glaringly focused on the end result. I will subdue them and silence them. Douse them only to strike my match once again, so that I may feel the loving warmth and the fiery vigor, instead of the hopelessness and acute pain that flashes through me at thought of failure or at the thought of doing things I once loved.


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