despite all my rage…

I am still just a rat in a cage. and above all, exhausted.  i could have hope and I could have dreams but when they are ideas of mine, they’re all so silent they might as well not exist in the first place. if my feelings, if my rage and self expression, were neat, if they were organised, were digestable to your average Mary sue type of person-

if all my loudness; the combustion of opinion and feeling, an utter mess of a mind, could all come prepackaged in neat little boxes and wrappers, maybe I would have to pretend to not be me. I would not keep an outer shell of shiny, fake plastic which makes me slightly more approachable and refined to the taste of the masses. if self-expression and individuality were mattered- were not shamed -maybe i too could matter or be appreciated. they, however, won’t let that be, won’t stay from a standard that keeps me considerate, and delightful, and careful, not too selfish, too unrestricted, too free, too unstable, too much to handle, too difficult. too happy. god forbid a guy experiments; god forbid I do something outside of what pleases the authoritarian regime of which my household is controlled by. the root cause of this mess that is me, that keeps me sane and happy, free and comfortable, accepted and understood is bad. unacceptable by the dictators call. when a dictator is displeased by something, he rids of it so it causes him no more grief, but where is my space to rid of my problems? 

he needs to get rid of what he doesn’t like, cover up evidence of its existence, pretend nothing is ever wrong. to maintain a certain control over the people he’s responsible of “caring” for. so the puppets don’t realise something is wrong, so they don’t question and doubt, disobey and break away from the iron-clad fist of such a ruler. 

I must cover it all up because I am always the problem, always something that needs to be repaired. because i can’t handle shit myself. so I share this with someone else, unhealthily giving them some of my baggage. and to absolutely nobody’s surprise it ends up hurting them. and that makes me worse, because I couldn’t keep it together to approach a situation rationally, and that brings guilt, guilt that consumes. i wish to be sad, and angry, and confused, and happy, and emotive all the time. i have so many wants I’ve never been asked about. I want to explore, i want to take part in experiences that could be “dangerous” to me, because im not fragile, and I crave to prove it with no way to do so. i have a feeling they think of me as porcelain, when im made much sturdier than that. built to last through more than just the lasting “damage” they can cause. originally i believe I didn’t come broken, but gained cracks along the way, and one day nearly fell apart, and without sought-for help found a way to build myself up again, repair the damage, fill in the cracks. I surrounded myself with protection, a clear separation of the hurt inside, and hostile outside that comes with navigating the world for the first time. but I clearly didn’t do a good enough job as it’s all coming apart again, unravelling slowly, like a conservation piece “restored” by someone who did nothing but hide the problems, paint over the damage and cracks that came with the original. so the cracks are more prominent, noticeable now, with more of me leaking out every time. 

I am positive I could have something better, healthier relationships with people that matter. i have unintentional outbursts directed at nobody in particular, that go to someone particular, and hurt her. i want to fix that. yet im scared, but of what yet im not sure, making the problem worse for as long as it stays unresolved. still i change nothing, because I don’t think im ready for change yet, i feel inadequate and incapable of change, forever a scary thing. once such a destructive habit is brought in, its hard for an addict to quit, there’s only so much you can replace such a thing with, that lasts and feels the same. the “addiction” hurts more than i think im willing to acknowledge. 

and i could have better but im scared to ask for improvement, because what if it doesn’t get better for me? I am too much of a coward to ask, to demand for better, a better that i have heard of and seen and dreamed of. I choose to be stuck, because stuck is familiar. stuck with something I don’t like for the sake of fitting in a mould that was too small to constrain me anyway. stuck with stupidly quiet music the way he likes it. the dictator doesn’t like oddities, and freaks that don’t fit in his narrow box of how a person should be, people who aren’t afraid to explore themselves on the inside must inherently be evil because how else may they possess the confidence to be so cool? the oddities, they repulse him and make him act out, so I pretend not to be an oddity most days, suited to his convenience; so I don’t think, or say, or do, the wrong thing, and I contain it all. I quiet the loud. 

and the medicine that helps me cope, that saves me from going down (down), must be controlled and suppressed, so that it is not ever distracting from them. if it is too loud, too aggressive, they can’t anchor me to them. can’t demand, can’t shout for submission. therefore they don’t like it, and dampen the comforting noise that drowns authority and pressure out. it’s too much for them, too much like what they may be afraid I will be, have been, or am. 

I think I need to get out more often, to be unapologetic for not existing within the realms of a neat little conformist box, never worn, scuffed, or rough around the edges. Music, even when controlled, brings hope. Saves lives. Keep me feeling alive, anchored to the planet rather than my head. 

-finneyfoxx out, peace!! AND HAPPY FIRST RANT OF 2026!!!! WHO WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO THE YAP? (it’s okay I’m sure people don’t read these much anyway, I’m expecting to not get replies and that’s a-okay :3)