It’s always said that you should write about what you know, but what I know is intermittent depression and rescinded dreams. What I know is repressed emotions and a fear of hurting people by being who I am, a childish fear, yet true.
It’s ironic that so many people wear masks to hide themselves away and yet the mask that I choose to wear is myself. The person whom my friends think they know so well is a conceit to hide what lies beneath, how very apposite that I should no longer know who that is. But then, who wants to read about that?
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