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.
I feel like somewhere along my life there was a shift. Suddenly nothing was for fun any more, it was all necessary. Suddenly I'm bothering with what others think, afraid to link any connotations I deem negative to my being. Why do I care what people I've never met, who'll forget they ever saw me, think of me; this obscure stranger in their peripherals. It's a warped sense of mind and place, seeing the space around me in my mind's made up ways. So I stray away from everyone, isolating myself unwittingly, turning them against me. Self fulfilling prophecies, I succeed in creating this reality. I need to break free from my mind's mentalities, with which negativity has propelled me. So I've started a new sport. I call it neighborhood night dancing. Donning headphones and heading out alone to the empty streets as the city sleeps, and moving to the beat. Letting it compel me towards a freedom long gone missing. Letting go is an art. Complete release is a tough ...
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