phoenix {rising} |
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Sturm und Drang If she was so great, why did he leave her? And this, I suppose, reveals what I do not want to believe that I believe: when people leave me, it is my fault. Of course, right now this is somewhat intellectual. No one is leaving me right now. No one has left me lately. No one shows any signs of leaving me in the near future. But it's hard to stop thinking that someone's always about to. Oh, but I look out the window, and the sky is turning an incredible purple and blue, and I remind myself that I can put it aside, all of it, leaving-worries and all of my intellectual-adequacy panic. I have a whole life to live, and I don't know how any of it is going to turn out. It's ridiculous to think it's set in stone at the age of nineteen. Even if I'd never written a poem, I could still turn out to be a good poet. Okay, yes, there's still fear creeping along beneath that knowledge. And the weird thing is, I kind of like the fear. It reassures me that there's something still there, some strong emotion. That I am not a void. Contentment is not a void. Why does it sometimes feel like quicksand? |
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