The anger inside me never showed on the outside, and this didn’t lead to my fragmentation but to my calcification.

 The anger inside me never showed on the outside, and this didn’t lead to my fragmentation but to my calcification. After all, this abundance of anger was an infinite fuel. If someone looked down on me, my fury kept me from feeling belittled. If a situation arose that could condemn me, my pride always destroyed any chance of it turning into self-hatred. Even if my life had driven me to the brink of suicide, I kept on living—or at least existing—just to let the void know that I was still here, if only for the sake of it. And I couldn’t resist this obsessive feeling. It was closer to steadfast stubbornness than to defiance, for the latter still implies a belief in some kind of victory, while the former signifies a refusal to internalize collapse even when defeat is absolute—which is perhaps the sole real victory. It is the moment when an ancient emotion ceases to concern itself with outward expression and instead becomes a servant of the inner state—the most uncompromising boycotter of the outer world that brought it into being.