It is human impulse to write our feelings in times of peril. Why do we write though? We’ll be dead and no one will read what we wrote. Is it the chance that someone may? Our need to write down our views and situations on the off chance someone will come across it? Talking or thinking about feelings doesn’t leave any physical proof. We are exhilarated by the unknown; we want people to understand us, to familiarize themselves with what we’re going through. The idea of our words living on when we’ve passed away is exciting. Everyone wants to live forever, perhaps not literally, but when we write something that is kept by others –and even if it isn’t- we live on in our words.
Don't give up. I'm only starting to see the gravity of your situation. the extent of your damnation. In short I don't blame you for your frivolous disposition. I blame myself for not being enough to change it. That came out wrong. I can't, nor do I want to, change you. I just wish I was insentive enough to make you wish to change. Or maybe change is non-existant. I want you to grow. You're playing a static and stagnant role whilst I am flourishing and thriving. I know I'm not the same as I was when we were first in love, but the change is amplified relative your inert stance. I've always cared about you, but that too has been altered by the hand of circumstance. I've known countless feelings for you, attachment, love, lust, caring, anguish, concern. I've always felt something for you. Now it's stronger than ever before. No more silly juvenile notions of "love". I care for you like a sister, a mother, a lover, a friend. You say you don...
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