I write everyday, or at least I try to. Some days are misnomers, outliers, but I suppose this is always going to be so. Some days, I inevitably write more than other, and some days I am unable to write at all. But, the actual writing isn’t a problem. Or at least, it hasn’t been yet. When I look hard enough, the words are always there, waiting for me. And this is something I’m grateful for.
So, this is something I think about a lot. Sometimes I even wallow in a swamp of contemplation, regarding it in the darkest of light. I don’t inherently find writing hard. Of course that doesn’t mean what I write is genius or even acceptable, but the sentences, and the paragraphs, for the most part, they come easily. It is what I write, the context, and the themes which I find conflict within.
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