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She didn’t feel empty anymore, just didn’t always feel full. She let herself cry this year, so that’s new (once, in the woods, alone, on the phone with a broken mother). Many things confused her and she still didn’t really trust anyone. She didn’t know what she wanted out of life, and never felt like enough. She had many insecurities and usually assumed no-one liked her, though that was far from true. Many people said they’d never met anyone like her. And she conceded she’d never met anyone quite like herself either, except one person this year, who she should get to know better. She decided maybe she should journal, but that felt dramatic. She guessed she had things going on in her head, though it felt empty until she started writing. She wanted to feel, more than anything. She would take any emotion: pain, anger, sadness, happiness, though that was less likely. She liked college, though she didn’t know if it was good for her. She was interested in beautiful things, like consciousness, the universe, love, the ocean, and the stars. She learned a hell of a lot last year, and was just beginning to love herself again. She learned that she was capable of sculpting a beautiful life for herself, that her thoughts would be manifested into reality, so she better keep the good ones and let the negative ones pass. She learned vulnerability is strength, and she had to let her walls down. They kept her safe and did their job last year, but she could knock them down now. It’s time for you to blossom, she told herself. It was time for her to listen to music and watch tv shows and read books. It was time for her to rebuild herself, and she was ready.
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