It's a thought that has often crossed my mind: in giving up writing, have I given up my purpose?
When you make something your sole reason for breathing and then deprive yourself of that, can you be said to be living any longer? It feels as though I am basking in shadows, trying to draw light from their darkness.
There will always be those potholes in me belonging to the people I thought I was. I placed so much of me in the words I conceived that there aren't even crumbs left with which to continue with.
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