Have you ever met a writer, who is afraid of reading?
I've stated this years ago (in other words): Young people don't read enough. It is just not in fashion enough, I would say, struggling to find a better explanation. This included myself just as much as anyone else, since I barely read anything at that time. I am studying literature and I refuse to read, which makes absolutely ZERO sense to me.
I go on living my life in the disregard of friendship, being misguided (because I have NO role model) and behave regretful.
My search for reason has led me to believe I was a special snowflake that should just keep dreaming, while I was trying to destroy myself.
I write a letter to my deceased father because I am struggling to hold on. At this point, I have dug myself into a hole so deep that I cannot see the light on top of me no more.
In three years of therapy I have never cried spontaneously, but when I was asked to critize my father, I broke into tears immediately: Jackpot.
In an attempt to find peace after struggling to find meaning, I write a letter that breaks my heart and somehow... I delete it. (It is gone)
Today, I am restless. My ear is drumming like a machine and I feel like twentysix is close enough for a sober man, who has lived regretfully in the past, to have a stroke and leave this world. Why can't I make sense of myself, of other people or of my expectations?
Two nights ago I had the worst nightmare about hawks and eagles.
Sometimes I am just afraid to pick up a book that I could find meaning in. I've read over 20 books this year alone, (but just on some days) I do not dare touch a book that I could find answers in.
I've stated this years ago (in other words): Young people don't read enough. It is just not in fashion enough, I would say, struggling to find a better explanation. This included myself just as much as anyone else, since I barely read anything at that time. I am studying literature and I refuse to read, which makes absolutely ZERO sense to me.
I go on living my life in the disregard of friendship, being misguided (because I have NO role model) and behave regretful.
My search for reason has led me to believe I was a special snowflake that should just keep dreaming, while I was trying to destroy myself.
I write a letter to my deceased father because I am struggling to hold on. At this point, I have dug myself into a hole so deep that I cannot see the light on top of me no more.
In three years of therapy I have never cried spontaneously, but when I was asked to critize my father, I broke into tears immediately: Jackpot.
In an attempt to find peace after struggling to find meaning, I write a letter that breaks my heart and somehow... I delete it. (It is gone)
Today, I am restless. My ear is drumming like a machine and I feel like twentysix is close enough for a sober man, who has lived regretfully in the past, to have a stroke and leave this world. Why can't I make sense of myself, of other people or of my expectations?
Two nights ago I had the worst nightmare about hawks and eagles.
Sometimes I am just afraid to pick up a book that I could find meaning in. I've read over 20 books this year alone, (but just on some days) I do not dare touch a book that I could find answers in.
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