I wrote sixteen pages of pain today. It felt like removing a scab again and again. I feel dirty all over my skin and the tension in my neck hurts. These are the side effects of writing your true self.
One day I’d love to write a book for fun. Today I write the book I need to write instead. It must be written, it is being written, and I hate each line. Reliving the past is never easy and reliving pain is even less fun. I need to take a break from breaking myself apart.
They say you are supposed to feel a release from writing your past. Something is supposed to close, a book of life or something, I really don’t know. The only release I feel is when I finally stay my sprinting fingers for a moment and give my mind a rest. It rests with my soul as it murmurs “must we go on?”
Yes, we must. It has to be done.
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