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Lacklustre words. My thoughts are dense and sticky, they attach themselves to one another and merge into a jumbled expression of what I can only call confusion. The present is an intersection of the past and the dozens of versions of possible futures.

The year end is rolling around quickly. Traditionally, yet unwillingly, I press replay and I feel myself going from being actor and director to mere spectator to my own existence. While I’d like to sometimes avoid it from setting in, I can’t stop this reflective mood from taking over. And truthfully I hate it, since it leaves me with no say over what could result from it. The fact that I am no longer in control is an intensely scary realisation for me.

Learning how to forgive and how to let go could possibly be two of the hardest lessons we’re faced with in life. So I’m questioning myself if I’m truly worthy to graduate with these lessons learnt and applied. Can I forgive and let go of the hurt? Can I be as good of a person as I’d wish?

My wishes are many. I wish, I wish…I wish to be a writer true and true and for my words to matter to the ones I’m writing them for. But something tells me I won’t find this particular wish boxed and wrapped in coloured paper under the Christmas tree.

Don’t mind me too much, though. Like I said, sticky words, gooey thoughts and a slight sense of confusion are throwing a party at my house right now.

 

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