And why do I choose to say the things I say the way I do? I don't care to sound smart, I just don't want to be bored with my vocabulary but I'll still repeat "on fleek" like I'm suffering from Tourette's.
My brain is on fire and I don't know if it's the caffeine or if it's been too long since I held a pen in my hand and let it purge through that rusted faucet I call creativity.
Throttle down, cowboy.
Then I think about you, Braille-Reader, out there. I wonder if you know I exist yet. If you ever will. Will we meet or will I build you up into this amazing fiction that real life will never know how to recreate? But that's all I have, isn't it? The idea of you. I've thought I knew you a thousand times over, but the closer I feel I am to you, the further away you are and the less I know from the idea of you. Whatever the truth of it is, I hope you sleep well tonight, while my brain burns piecing you together only to deconstruct myself in your wake, knowing I'll never be good enough.
Goodnight.
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