I suffer from bouts of romanticism, the kind only an artist wallows in, or a sensitive kid, or a man who has grown into something he no longer recognizes. As I struggle to make ends with being creative, to rip my soul out of this shell and let all see who I truly am, all I can think of are the words that have been already displayed, and taught, and respected – admired, when the only thing I wanted was to create them myself. I am not sure what story I can tell anymore, for all the good ones have already been taken.
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