Reader. Writer. Romantic.

Do you know what it feels like to write the story of your soul? It’s as though a part of you has been cut out and placed on a pedestal for the whole world’s enjoyment, critiqued and judged under society’s limiting microscope. For all my life, I thought that I had written who I was onto the page, but I was wrong; they were mere fragments of who I was. This was the first time I had ever written the song in my heart on to the pages of a book, bound and on display for everyone to see. It’s exhausting. I never knew how exhausting it could and would be. But now, as I sit here, staring at my blinking cursor, waiting for the words to come as they often have, I find that I have nothing left inside. All my creativity. All that I was and am. Gone. They say, write the book you want to read. I have and it has left be drained, a dry husk of a person. I am but a shadow of my former self. But i’ve done it. I’ve written something I’m truly proud of, something I’m proud to say is my own. I have always hidden behind my writing and used it as a mask. I was always a stronger person through my words. Not anymore. Now the world truly knows who I am and I can never take it back. Read my unapologetic words and my defiance, etched and immortalized in my legacy.

One day, I’ll be able to write again, but until then I will practice and polish the skills that I have already acquired. I hope that through it I will heal and find myself again in ways that no one can take away. It will be then that I shall write again.

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