Burning ★★★★★

Is there a person living or breathing who has never told themselves a story? Is it possible to love in this world without worrying that word is simply a product of your own reality? Does one desire what they do because of who they are, where they are from, who raised them, or what happened along the way? What is most important; and do you blame yourself for that? Do you judge the world around you? Perhaps both? Is it possible to separate the two? Has it ever been? At this point, do you even care? How much does what you strive for matter to you? What impact will it really have? And, what excuses are you making along the way for it? Why do you still crave more? What is it inside that's making you jealous? Do we all feel this way? Why do the feelings of longing linger when one knows so many other things plain and simply delineate far more? Are we just in the way of each other? Is all anyone really wants the means to forge their own glory, free of fear, free of judgment? You just want to live the story you have been told, only you forgot it was entirely woven by others, but you believed it. Things scalded you on the road to getting here and you placed much blame because of it. You forgot about all the old fond feelings and all you can remember now is the pain and that searing. Your emotions' heart - their very natures - now run from themselves. The world has exhausted you. Remember, that isn't your fault. Confusion is a more sane thought process than Certainty.

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