angels in the outfield or in hell or anywhere but where you would expect to see them

The frustrations of normal people getting to me, wondering when things got to be so overwhelming without me noticing, me noticing things have generally always overwhelmed me and not knowing what to do about it, it being something or some things or most things that I happen to catch on to faster than most people but not having anything to do with things that I necessarily want to have anything to do with. It's just ideas, and things happening, and hoping that the things I think about are going okay but I feel like it's easy to forget how heavy boots are when you aren't the one who wears them and maybe you weren't even there when I picked them up and maybe it's me forgetting how easy I have it or maybe I still feel those weights no matter the problem. I don't know how better to express myself than clouded verse and tears of anxiety and a lack of clarity. When I look in the mirror, I am staring down the ugly cousin of self awareness and a sense of inability or inactivity or institutionalized misunderstanding. I am staring myself down until the glass starts cracking, until I break my knuckle bones from the thought alone, blood or something less gruesome spreading like silk against melted sand. I know you don't know what I mean and I know I shouldn't be complaining. I think it would be a lot easier if I either just let go or said something but it gets so hard to disappoint people when you don't know who would be willing to celebrate you for doing exactly nothing. I speak in tongues because it takes away some of the pain when you are misunderstood if you don't say what you mean in the first place. It's not anyone's fault but my own if there's anyone to blame at all. I just feel like it's anything now, anything pushing me and I know my job is so small here but why do I feel like that angel, the one who had to pour the fire over the people on the book of Revelations and he/she/it didn't even get a NAME in the book. He didn't ask for that job, just happened to be strong enough to carry a really huge ass bowl. I think they forgot to put the part in about how the angel was crying, crying so hard he believed he could put the fire out that he was pouring over the sinful people, because he didn't want to hurt anyone, and it wasn't his fault, and he didn't know how to just tell God he didn't know if this was maybe the very best plan to make things better. I don't know if that's exactly what I mean, only that sometimes the best way is being the best for something and other times this is the most difficult thing if those things you are brilliant at feel like fire against your own fingertips, burning your face by distance and default, leaving you to look in the mirror with a face you can no longer look at without remembering the screaming of all those people you didn't want to scorch, remembering yourself how you were when wrinkles were still for grandmothers and you, alone, were at least worthy of the quiet.