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I want to write. I want to write to make me feel the way I do when I read. The words change me. I can do anything. I have done everything. I have fallen in love, walked the world, touched the sky, and laughed with the taste of freedom in my mouth. I have been braver and better and loved more deeply than ever before. I have wanted and cried and it has always been the words, the words, the ones that others write and the ones that I want to. Words heal me. They make me feel complete. I want to write, to keep that warmth alive.

I don’t want to write. I don’t want to feel the way I do when I read. The words change me. I have been torn apart. I have lost, myself, my soul. I have fallen to my knees, grieved for the world, ached for the sky, and lived with the salt of tears in my mouth. I have been seared and burned and bled more deeply than ever before. I have wanted and cried and it has always been the words, the words, the ones that others write and the ones I can read no longer. Words have broken me. They have shattered me into emptiness. I don’t want to write, to feel their knife of pain ever again.

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