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Ten Long Years, (wip?)

- Wednesday, October 31, 2012

   That winter I was new, risen from an emotional death and malleable. I read The Hobbit and chain smoked and Dimmu Borgir’s Puritanical Euphoric Misanthropia continued to enrapture me. I sat in the cold of winter a different person than a few scant months prior. I could feel greens and browns and blues and the texture of trees beneath my fingers. The world was wonder and magic. I didn’t know where I was going, but I walked anyway. I didn’t need to know. I walked through forests, dreams, fields of thorns, madness, and clarity. Those were the last breaths of something I’ll never grasp again. But why? I am in control of my self. Should it not be so simple as to turn a switch and deem myself anew and full of such energy again? Where did that life, that spirit, that creative thrust, go?

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