It needs to be written. But the days pass by and there lacks the time. To write something beautiful, or something that makes my heart rest. I have forgotten how to press my fingers to these keys, I have forgotten how to release emotions through ink on paper. And the paper, it lies there, empty, and me I stand here open and full. There are so many things I want to change. I cannot write them out for fear I have already done so. What can be new, newly written? I do not know. I do not understand my purpose. I stare at this paragraph and am smitten with regret. For choosing the life that commits to led, for choosing the life that perhaps is not meant for me. I cannot write something beautifully. I can only write this, for now. And I am smitten with regret that I can no longer stare at my words with a sense of satisfaction. A sense of relief. It no longer comes over me. Where are the metaphors, the similes, the metres and analogies. They have escaped me. I have escaped myself. The self I hated for so long. I miss that self, and I am afraid she has drowned. She has drowned in places of not feeling good enough. How do I collect those water drops and piece them back together again? How do I find that self that was hated but was needed. I need her. I need that hated self. She was the only one who found an escape through words. She is now lost. I need her back because I need those words. I need hate. Hate is able to be changed. I cannot lose it. I want to change it.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
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