I feel as if writing these things has become something I did not intend, or that I do not enjoy. My own impression of what I put to text falls in the category of ostentatious, preachy refuse. I have drilled in my head the lessons learned in middle and high school about the proper format of essays, the various ways to write a sentence, the utmost importance of parallelism, and the inexplicable horror of “be” verbs. Instead of freely dumping thoughts on paper, my mind goes straight to self critique. This is only compounded by a hesitation to truly share what is on my mind, which, as of late, have been to me quite personal, relating to relationships, emotions, and decisions. All things I have a tendency to shutter and hide, even in normal life, let alone from the internet. As a result, the things I have to say, or force myself to write, feel more like gripes and unwarranted advice proclaimed by a child who has had little experience. I am no Alexander Hamilton nor John Adams nor Isaac Newton nor Albert Einstein. I have not yet immersed myself long enough in anything to give advice. My ramblings are shouts into the wind. But maybe I am being dramatic and invoking an undue excess of self pity. Maybe writing this dreadful thing so late at night is not a good idea. They say don’t make big decisions when emotional, or maybe it’s just when you’re mad. Who knows? Maybe the best decisions come from emotion. This may make no sense to the person reading this. But know, that all these thoughts are not for you, but for me. I believe I will publish this post, and it may be my last here.
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