there were times i had a desperate impulse to write. and it was almost like a destructive drive, one that could suck my life out of me and turn me into a dysfunctional typing machine. i recall how i was overwhelmed by that inexplicable sense of hopelessness and fear, that i would be eventually losing myself in that eternal void and darkness filled with meaningless words and speeches and yet couldn’t resist. but then i was told, that it’s writing by itself the embodiment of all meanings and nuance one could possibly recognize. it’s the labyrinth of night that allows us to see through those intriguing remnants, torn pieces of our over-obsessive self, knowing that all we had made believe are in fact senseless waste in all facets. everything. whatever did or did not. it’s not about fate nor missed chances. but what am i exactly after, apart from all these beliefs? have i ever became stronger to embrace that weight of truth? should there be an answer, behind the veil of words and speeches.

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