STARVED

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For the first time I am writing the title in large letters before starting my jots of thoughts.

I guess I really want to remember why I bolted up out of bed at 2am, emblazoned my room with the death of light, and scrambled about with no glasses on trying to locate a pen and paper.

The answer?

STARVING.

This has been remarked and regarded upon so much it feels cliche.

STARVING.

Trusting my gut that something needs to come out so I can better access my emotional cavities and compulsive need to write out long run on sentences.

STARVING.

The idea of what if and if not. Using those ideas as dangerous way of guidance.

STARVING.

The ideas themselves.

STARVING.

Not giving enough credit to your credibility of knowing.

STARVING.

The marvelization at the epitome of your own made up words.

STARVING.

When density overrides and brains are shut off. 

STARVING.

The uniformity of comfort and the enslavement of doubt.

STARVING.

Repetition as a means of survival.

STARVING.

Consciousness of survival as a means of death.

STARVING.

My unique joy in starving.

STARVING.

My rapid ebb and flow between starving and hungry.

STARVING.

When enough’s enough.

STARVING.

Even though you’re never complete.

STARVING.

When confusion takes hold.

STARVING.

When step turns to stumble.

STARVING.

When moments begin only as a memory of once.

STARVING.

The recognition of flexibility in truth.

STARVING.

The full circle and the finale of breath.

STARVING.

Yet another realization of you.

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