I

Happy Holidays

I am sick and tired of doing this.

Losing my creativity at the cost of what? The gain for who?

Another.

The others.

It’s always the others.

I’m sick of this  shit.

Sick of it.

Believe it or not I would write lovely things.

Poetry.

Short Stories.

Wrote for publications.

The extent of being burned out.

We are not robots.

This life we live is mechanical.

To go faster, to produce faster.

At what cost?

Yourself.

Your art.

I wish not to be a robot.

Wish not for money.

My identity is worth more than anything you can throw my way.

 

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How I Met Jane

Holy Sh*t

This still exists.

Want to know something?

I’m still the same.

Within the last post, I’ve done things that I can’t express all at once. Karma came back, and why, it wasn’t the best meeting. Cycles of depression, and worried thoughts, and the never-ending fear of the treacherous, “What If’s?”

I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I wouldn’t be here typing if it wasn’t for those events.

I wouldn’t be here lying to you if I said I wasn’t afraid of the next relapse.

But I am here.

So, let’s meet Jane again.

She can control her whiskey, but now she steals beer out of bars.

 

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