My hand moves across the page, and I’m liking my own handwriting. It feels strange to like it now, I’ve disliked it for so long! I want to create sentences that are beautiful, like poetry. but what comes out is mundane daily ephemera. Nobody will remember what we had for dinner, but I will. I’ve written it down. And sometimes I get revelations, about my now and about my past. That’s when it’s exhilarating to write.
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