2:18 am

Some days, I really have to accept that part of my identity as a writer (at least to some shitty degree)--along with the writer tendencies to romanticize, poeticize, dramatize, and just write the world and it's experiences in shades, hues, shadows and in all the colors of a fucking metaphor-- means that what I am writing is real, is what I feel, and is neither phony shit nor something to invalidate. When I am happy, I do feel the warmth and the rays of the sun touching my soul. When I am sad, I do feel the process of dark and cold decay as the warmth ceases to exist. When I am mad, I do feel vicious as the fucking sun--blistering heat and omitting spits of fire everywhere I go. It's not bullshit to be eloquent or articulate with the inner-workings of my soul. I am so much more passionate than just feeling happy, or just feeling sad, or just feeling mad. I am so much more intense than that, and that's okay. It's okay to write about it in more than just 140 characters. It's okay to not filter. It's okay to write about the soft shatters and distant crumbles of your bones falling apart. It's okay to write about how your tears are where the vulnerability, hurt, and reality seem to manifest. It's okay to feel. It's okay to write about your existence. If anything, it's coming into terms with your inner peace. It's healing.

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