My inner peace is hard to find. I think of myself as a complex person- angry, or hungry, confused or bored, never just content. But when I do find myself content, a rare occasion, its with a pen in my hand. I feel like i'm sorting through a pile of old clothes- what do I want to keep? What am I willing to give away? I sort through my brain, even if my thoughts are stupid and useless, I out them on paper. My inner peace is when i'm writing.