There’s a merriment level to it all, the scribbles and artistic tilt of it all. A strange and fantastic feeling of ‘owning’ each word. In a sense anyhow. I don’t know. Anyone who does write for a long time will probably get good at it at some point down the line and gain what they need from it; but, mainly for me, that would have to be… a peace-of-mind and not just with the scribbles, really. It’s everything and all of the things that can and will(and won’t) happen. That’s the truest beauty you can let yourself indulge in. To not care, in a certain sense, that things aren’t exactly going ‘according to plan’. The plan was never a plan, per se, but rather… just this wish to feel better with my ocd. That comes first above all else, really. Had to have done, still has to do. It’s there, it’s in me- that fReAk imbalance, albeit I work on it, work with it, and through it every single day. Sometimes I do wake up, and it’s here all over again. For instance, amid my hour-long run this morning and early in the am. I wasn’t focused at all on the music in my ears and even the road as such. Not til… about… half-an-hour in, when I thought, “ah, Christ, man. This can’t be happening right now, or ever, really.” You’ve, in all serious truth, lost most of your life so far to the thing and it’s mind-beating nature. And that’s all absolutely okay, maybe even more than that, for me. Just so long as I can keep doing good and, of course, KEEP getting to write, I’ll be happy as a pig in the proverbial

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