Format the following passage properly, for storytelling purposes. Keep it as written, don't change a single word, but improve grammar where necessary.

Another day begins. My wake-up alarm comes not in the form of a radio station blaring an obnoxiously amplified jingle, accompanied by an overzealous and hyper-enthusiastic announcer, but in the pleasant tones of a housemate. Her voice, when she chooses to use it, is beautiful, and I hear her making many gentle and passionate sounds just outside my door. I am not able to discern how many of them are her way of expressing concern, and how many of them come from sincere joy, but to my ears they are a very delightful note--or set of notes--on which to arise from my slumber and prepare for the events of the next twenty-four hours. Today marks the sixty-ninth birthday of another housemate; though my mind has given thought to some applicable jokes in that regard, and I know she has a sense of humor that would allow her to appreciate them, I have decided to use my better judgment and keep them to myself. She's a big kid at heart, but she is still old enough to have been my mother. Actually, she's only a couple of years younger than my Mom. Though I am finding ways of dealing with the pain, or at least means of keeping myself busy enough to not think about it, there are times where I see the state of the world and begin to feel a sense of hopelessness and existential dread. It has never felt so meaningless and hollow. I cannot live for my parents alone, and never could have. I cannot stay stuck in my past, for fate eventually forces all of us to make some form of progress, even if it is something as simple as warding off constipation with a trip to the restroom. Sometimes I wonder if I'm headed for the "gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat," the one of which Winston Churchill spoke so eloquently. The thought of living life without some sort of goal or ambition is even more repugnant, and far more frightening, than ending up in prison one day. For whatever wrongs the prisoner may have committed, and however dishonorable their ambitions were, their incarceration was born from some sort of goal. They had an ambition, even if it may not have necessarily focused on their betterment, or worked to others' detriment. I am already becoming accustomed to the norms of living in an institutionalized environment, though I am fortunate in that I am a bit more independent than others. I would like to be given chances to do things for myself, but without forfeiting the freedom to humbly ask for help when I need it. I have noticed how older folks like to assert the final remnants of their independence, and saw an example of this firsthand in my late father, God rest his soul. He was very stubborn in that regard. By the time he was in his late seventies and early eighties, he was a bit more cantankerous than he had once been. I would sometimes think to myself, "there was a time when he wasn't like that." Even with me, my parents could think the same thing. Sometimes, they would tell me how agreeable and friendly I had been when I was younger and observe how questioning, how rebellious, I had become as a teenager, and later as a young adult. The only constant is change. We are supposed to grow, to learn, to have views and perspectives. We are supposed to stand for something, even if no one else agrees with us, and live out who we are--and if you believe in destiny, who we were meant to be. No one will ever agree with us all of the time, no matter how well-meant our beliefs may be and no matter how much they try to see the good in others, to see ideas from multiple points of view. By the time my father was 'nearing the end,' he had grown fed up with others trying to assist him. My Mom and I would offer our help, only to be shot down with the zeal of a gunslinger in the Wild West. Maybe that was the Capricorn in him coming out...when a Capricorn has their mind on doing something, they figure out how they want to do it, and can be stubborn when others try to mix their own blend of ingredients into the soup. Most of the time they may not even realize the stubbornness is coming out. I think of it almost like a scientist who has just come up with a concoction in the laboratory (going back to that metaphor). They advise anyone who is also there to stand back and protect themselves by any means necessary, or all means available. Their mixture could burn you, or freeze you, or turn you into a three-headed alligator baby. But for your own good, maybe it's best not to invite the possible consequences. I wonder if I am getting the earliest of early starts on turning into my father. Though I try to be as gentle and kind with others as possible, I realize there are times where I'll have to speak up and be a voice for change. I have the power to advocate for others on some level, but must use that power wisely. On the other hand, I possess limitless potential to be an advocate for myself, and must exercise that capacity with equivalent wisdom. In a few decades, I may be just as stubborn, just as insistent on wanting to see how much I can get done without someone else's help. And yet the last thing I would ever want is for pride to go before a fall; certainly, I am already at risk for a fall, and that risk will only increase as the years go on, as the years turn thereafter into decades. Though pride is one of the seven deadly sins, I feel that it takes a certain level of pride to get by in this world. There is nothing wrong with lifting yourself up, as long as you are not taking someone else down in the process. Therein lies one of the habits I see in myself, a habit that I feel a level of regret and remorse for: the ego. It is a many headed-hydra. Each head represents a different time in my life, whispers from my then that seek to haunt me in the now, to jeopardize the progress I have made. The ego wants to be loved. It wants recognition. It wants unconditional agreement with the ways it thinks and feels. But the world doesn't work this way. Even the gentlest, sweetest individual will not see eye to eye with you all of the time. Only by slaying this hydra, by violently mutilating each head until it can no longer be recognized in its original form, can I move forward and become the man my parents, and my Creator, meant for me to be. The ego is a beautiful thing in that it can drive you to be more than you are, but it can be a dangerous thing in that it can lead one to think of the self only. In the distance, another housemate sings. Her pitch is not perfect, but her voice is beautiful. I have the pleasure of sitting next to her at the dining room table, working with her in the kitchen. Her passion inspires me to be more passionate. I feel I can hit notes with a zeal similar to hers but consciously strive to ensure the ego does not assume any sort of dominance over how I perceive myself or others. I do not want to become the sort of person who thinks only of themselves, who sees others as being inferior. This mentality can make a great athlete, a great artist, but makes a lousy person. Another housemate makes some more noises, which seem to suggest a sort of restlessness or frustration as she and the other housemates await breakfast. Admittedly, I'm looking forward to it myself, having noticed a sort of 'drainage' in the pit of my gut. It is nice to have more fuel for the tank. Already I can hear those four words: "all right, guys, come." It is as sweet as nectar to the ears of one who is famished, an old, familiar friend who is there for you in your hour of need. Today should be good.