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Sunday, February 6

Quiet, please.

I feel like I am suffocated with words. With thoughts, with useless sentences, sentence fragments, feelings. They are rising up inside of me, making me blind, paralyzing me with their weight, their sadness, their overwhelming quantity. I try to draw them out, slowly coaxing them from my body with the white purity of a fresh sheet of paper, the metallic beauty of this keyboard. And while they will sometimes come -- a slow flow from my fingertips, the relief palpable as they leave my body and my mind -- this release is rare and short-lived. They prefer to stay inside of me, within the depths of my self, replicating and thriving in the dark, doubting corners of my mind. I used to welcome them, used to be in control of them -- but now I am at their mercy. They are immune to my paper, my keyboard. They are immune to my silent pleading and slow pacing. I am full of them, and yet they will not leave.

These thoughts, these sentences, these feelings. Like water, they are what used to sustain me. And like water, they are also what will slowly drown me.

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