On letters.

How many more letters will I have to write before my insides stop having the desire to express themselves in writing? I am tired. I am tired of using my words to rationalise and argue for what should be a given. I am exhausted. I need my words to cease working and start weaving. I don’t mind writing letters. I am tired of their purpose: ending things. I am tired of them assassinating the hopes and expectations that their predecessors brought to life. I am tired of killing what I gave birth to.

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