checking in
Saturday, September 19
Every word I'm trying to write feels contrived. Or maybe I'm just tired and stressed and a weird version of lonely that I am severely not ok with. Every metaphor feels reached for and foreign on my tongue. Then again, I doubt that it's new or fascinating that another twentysomething is having an existential crisis. But it feels important. It feels big. And I miss you. All of you. And I miss the words in my own head as much as I miss yours. I'm still here. The here is just very flexible and strange.
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All we will ever have are our words to convey our thoughts. Everything else gives us physical satisfaction and fleeting inspiration
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"nothing of me is original; I am a combined effort of everyone I've ever known." Do you read Chuck Palahniuk at all? I feel like you'd love him, so you probably have. This reminded me of that quote. And I can relate to this feeling extremely well.
ReplyDeleteThis hits the right chords and I have been here time after time
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