What if all I want to do is write. I want people to know how I feel and for them to understand me. All of these ideas in my head fade when the ink hits the surface of my leather journal. Wouldn’t it be easier to write my darkest secrets? Because I have no one to listen to me. But why should they, it’s not their responsibility to help me work through my problems, and I am capable of doing that myself. So instead I’ll just write and not worry about what they think. I’ll try.
But the thoughts are all gone, nothing left to write about that hasn’t been written before. Of course there are so many ideas in my head, but they all fade. Gone, into nothingness, with only their echo remaining. I want you to know me, but how can I even begin to describe myself. How…
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