I journal all hours of the night piecing together what I have come to know as my confessional fragmented stream of consciousness. Writing isn’t going to save me- I’m not one to be saved. But I can’t help catch myself meticulously talking to the dead. And foolishly pretending someone is talking back. I do hear things- something- I hear freedom- I want to be free- I need to be free- I was taught that freedom is good- but what could potentially become of us once we are free? Alas, the unanswerable question feeding and slithering in my brain like a parasite.
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True. It bekons from beyond – freedom and surrender. But so do survival and hope … Hope is the most dangerous thing. At least you can fall back on the memory of 6 years ago …