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My words feel like sand. In my head, my words are nothing but a sand timer flipping itself every two minutes. I love words. Words are the closest we can get to a person aside from sharing our bodies. Words are an art form. One that I haven’t been exercising. Mostly because every thought I have has a timer. How long until I forget this, lose track? How long before this thought runs itself to the ground before I get my conclusion? I feel intelligent. My grades don’t reflect that. I feel like a ship constantly on fire. Sitting on the one things that could save me. My nervous system alight and on fire but nobody can see it. My spine electrified and wrapped in flesh no one can see through. My brain is a rats nest. My life is a hell hole. I feel like a tornado except the wind stopped hurting and I’m just stuck inside. Do you know how painful it is to love words that stick like oil and glue? The words that formulate our unique experiences that I can’t even pay attention to for more than 2 minutes? The books I want to read on topics that fascinate me, yet I spend everyday as an unfinished product. The beauty I find in expression, but I can’t express. If we are our words, am I the shitty accumulation of 2 minutes’?
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