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Oftener now

I am overwhelmed with feelings and thoughts that have nowhere to go, they chase me and really destroy me and I write, clumsily, more to help myself than to write something good, and I wonder if this means I really am going to be a real writer one day, that the underlying emotions, the sense of life lived completely, is what matters, not the style, history or subject matter.
I feel lately like I have opened a door and found another room, sort of like being in a small house and unexpectedly opening the door to a vast ballroom, suddenly I have so much more territory to explore. There is a sense of deep darkness about it, a sense that if someone else really knew how deep and how far my mind travels into this shadowed place they would have me get therapy quickly, there is the sense, like exploring an abandoned building, that I am now trespassing, I
am living on borrowed time now.
After standing at the fence and staring while I got my nerve up, I finally decided to climb over, half-imagining how it would feel to get shot by a homeowner's rifle.
Then I cross the field, and I want more, so I start looking into the windows of the abandoned house, and then I invade, and then I'm so far in, but this world I've entered, no one else knows, so no one can stop me, I just keep going further and further and there's the sense that I may be endangering myself, I may die, but I may also discover untold treasures that will defy words.

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