glass ceilings.

I find myself incredibly frustrated these days. I dream of big things. I want to do more, be more. But at the same time, I feel myself confined more and more by lack of opportunity, technical skills, resources, family constraints, and personal definition of success. I also feel infinitesimally small. Tiny. Insignificant. Mundane. In this generation, it becomes harder and harder to stand out when competition rises above you from all sides. I feel like an ant looking up in a field of wheat; the stalks are so tall they form the illusion that they bend over and close up the sky. 

I feel trapped by my own glass ceiling of ambition.

It's always been a struggle, dealing with personal emotion. I prefer to keep it contained inside, whether it be released through the cigarette smoke on my balcony or quietly written away in moleskins with forcefully dotted i's and jagged t's. It seems the only times I can write with passion or substance is when there is strong emotion inside, a visceral turbulence that refuses to be silenced and thus has no where to go but expel through my keyboard into a vengeful, unrelenting stream of self pity.

Sigh.