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I sit down to write, knowing there is something I need to say, but I am silenced by the notion that there is nothing I could say that hasn't been said one thousand times before. I plead with my mind to move just enough so that I could form words that would paint a clear picture of what is happening inside of me, but it only ignores me and sits there dead in my skull. I haven't loved my own mind for such a long time because some days it seems that it only spews for garbage, garbage that pollutes my body, my heart, my life. I want what I do to touch people in ways they never knew possible. Perhaps this is a lofty goal, but it is what I want, and I have grown very weary of giving up my desires because they seem so impossible. I have put aside many dreams that did nothing but break my heart, but I cannot let go of this. I suppose I shall just have to be 1001.
 

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I don't know if that is what you meant to write or how you feel about your writing, and the fact that it's hard to tell the difference means to me that it is very good!
 
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