Prologue

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I can never finish anything.

It's a curse, really.

To be aware of a gift—a talent—but never have enough steam to quite make it across the proverbial road.

Even now, I struggle to write what I've felt for ages.

Too consumed by the need to make my words enough that I've stunted my own primal need to make things I love for me and myself alone.

The pitfalls of a people-pleaser I guess.

Confident for everyone except my self, and it burns.

I'd not wish this darkness upon even those I majorly dislike.

I digress.

It saddens me, really, but my agony is truly the only proof that the words I have inside me are constructed of some special kind of energy—life.

If not, I'm delusional and using arrogance to cushion my shortcomings.

But...if so, I've faith that, one day—preferably a rainy one—I'll finally conclude all that I've begun.

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