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  • My friend who doubles as esoteric tweet-extraordinaire, Erika Schatzi, told me that "the meaning of life comes down to the relationships you build with people."

    but how can I build upon these relationships if I let my doubt and the thought of someone not liking what I do cut me cold?

    growing in stranger and more careless ways than I imagined myself, i've succumbed to a thoughtless spiral of avoiding these words that multiply themselves into paragraphs, stories and meaning. I haven't written in journals, I've neglected my poetry, I (forget) to write letters. Without noticing (and maybe while noticing) I veered off into a world experienced abstractly (just with my eyes and the neurons that piece a narrative together, but seldom with writing), and have left the days I live to be sorted through by the often forgetful person I am and years later, I notice how harshly I've betrayed myself. And not just myself, but you. You and anyone else who I've stopped myself from writing to and being more myself with.

    I can't tell if this was a justified feeling; a "human" reaction--was this an ego preservation thing? something so I wouldn't feel ashamed if I read it later? something that I couldn't achieve because I'm still stuck in my old town that I pretend has nothing to say for itself? all I can tell is that it's left no trace behind because I stopped myself dry from growing and writing myself into existence so long ago. But I'm done with tricking myself into thinking that's how a life should be led, in terror so monumental.

    but this is a promise, a line I draw from me to you telling you that I'm done bullshitting myself with my self-destructive personal narrative. This is me, stepping away from the chains I've bound myself to for years and I am ready

    for this, for more words, history, laughter, friendship, and above all



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