Eleven years I've been writing this blog. Twenty-one crafting myself birthday letters, twenty-five jotting my thoughts into countless journals: a lifetime of trying to make sense of a life which will not let itself be figured out. You pretend you imagined eventually the answers would come, but you always knew yours was meant to be a life of mists and confusions, of endless questions and the perpetual search for meaning. You never deluded yourself to believe everything would align itself before it was too late, that if you were just patient everything would make sense. But perhaps if someone could have warned you that the person you were is the person you would be, it would have saved you the heartache of dreaming differently.
You think there must be a purpose to pain, a way to channel the heartbeat in your scars.
It's hard to see it though,
when you're bleeding out.
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