I miss

Sometimes I re-read something I wrote years ago and become really nostalgic for how I felt then, when I was really in love or feeling something really intense. I miss how I felt when I was writing it, even if it was conflicted or sad. I miss feeling something with such clarity and so deeply that I had to sit down and write about it. Now I feel other things, sure, but I miss knowing exactly what hurt, and I miss knowing exactly which scenes to write that would place my avatar in the necessary hypothetical situations and arguments and kisses that would reveal to me the truth of what I was thinking, and sort of exercise and then purge those thoughts. But most: I love remembering that the best writing comes from confusion and longing, and so it’s probably best that I never really, never fully really, get what I want; that I never fully understand anything.

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