At times I seethe into the depths of depression so far I feel as if I will never be able to climb out. My hearts spills out artistic verbiage and I feel as if I will never be able to share it with anyone. Is it worthy; my written thought; to share with the rest of humanity?
My faceless lovers and emotional expeditions thus far have defied me as far as the outsiders can see, and I write. School is a requirement of social norm status and achievement and I write. Childhood memories of anguish are remembered and I write. Joy of aspiring goals and fear of change exist and I write. Van Gogh painted, but I write.
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