There is again, a torrent of thoughts in my mind. Am I a writer? What am I writing? Does it make any sense at all or does it make too much sense? Why do I write? Do I want people to read and tell me it's good or do I hope, but in vain, that my thoughts, once out there, will not surface again to haunt and nag?
When your writing is taken in the opposite sense of what you wanted it to be, doesn't that make you a not-so-good writer? No, I do not need validation here. I do not need anyone telling me whether I am good or bad. These are thoughts aloud.
I do not mean to hurt, I don't think most people in the world intend to hurt others at all. But yet I seem to, by words, spoken, written. Would it be that I am too forthright? Or maybe, like a mother whose child can never do a wrong, I am blind when I write. Maybe I cannot see what you might when you read it. Maybe that is what hurts.
As a writer, as a human being, I feel. And I used to write here because I wanted you to know how I feel . Ain’t I entitled to a little pleasure …
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