That I want to write a story for the shear purpose of making someone suffer. So I can control the life that surrounds then and pour every ounce of my anxiety and sadness and bitterness into them so I don't have to carry it around anymore?
I'm ready to be over this.
I'm ready to move on and not care.
There is so much more out there for me. Better things. Perfect things that are not going to lead me to settle.
Maybe that's what my day needs to be spent doing, listening to the rain, and writing.
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