You sit down to write but your mind won’t stop telling you that whatever it is you’re about to write will end up being stupid and useless and no one will appreciate it, not even you. You’ve lost all sense of purpose – why do you even write? Does it help anything. You’ve forgotten. You think too much. You care too much. So what if no one reads it. Stop giving a fuck – you idiot. Just fucking write, and fucking draw, and fucking create. Make beautiful things. Stop worrying so much. Stop numbing yourself. Let yourself love, and let yourself hate. Let yourself feel. Let yourself create. Just write it down – I miss you, I wish I could tell you that – and then move on. MOVE ON. Move, the fuck, on. You think you’re eternally stuck in this limbo (maybe you are) but it’s ridiculous. It really is. When I’m silent, you come closer. When I get closer, you run so far away. I don’t understand. Just cut me off. Paranoia. Frustration, sick. And yet you’re there to comfort. Why is it always so. You pursue poison but latch on to medicine. Unfair. You either die or heal – you can’t keep hurting and curing yourself. No. Stop this. Work on yourself. Please!


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