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I write a lot about becoming—about how the world presses us into motion, how it insists we choose who we are and what we will do. As if identity is something that solidifies once a decision is made. As if choosing is the same thing as knowing.Maybe it’s because everyone around me is becoming, too.We…
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I keep envisioning myself in a crowded train station.The air is loud with movement, footsteps colliding, voices overlapping, destinations being announced with careless certainty.Everything I love is packed into a departing train.Every version of safety. Every place I once felt whole.I push through the masses, apologizing without meaning it, panic rising in my throat as…
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I want freedom.I want to be fluid.I carry a craving for life so large it refuses to be satiated.I dream. I hope. I imagine a life I’ve built with my own hands and decide it is worth living before it even exists.And still—I want stability.I want college, education, continuity.I want to love deeply, to form…
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I exist in a quiet that never settles. Not the kind that comforts, but the kind that watches me rot from the inside out. A patient decay. The kind no one interrupts. I refuse to speak, and I hate myself for eroding in the unspoken— for letting whole versions of me decay between my teeth,…
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There is a version of myself I have learned to mourn.Not because she was better,but because she did not yet knowwhat it costs to understand. For a long time, I believed I had always lived like this—caught in spirals, folding inward, turning the same questionsuntil they wore smooth.But when I look back, I remember simpler…
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I feel like I am constantly being pulled in too many directions—unsure of who I should become and which versions of myself will have to die along the way. I wish I could do everything I want to do, follow every path that calls my name. But I only get one life. And with that comes…
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I saw a photo of myself from when I was twelve. I was amazed by how much I had changed— and how unmistakably I was still me. I’m eighteen now, and it startled me to realize that it wasn’t really that long ago. Six years. Six years sounds small when I’m ready to commit that…
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I keep thinking about someone flipping an hourglass upside down. How each grain of sand feels like it’s piling on top of my shoulders. Not heavy all at once— just enough, constantly, to remind me that time is moving whether I’m ready or not. The concept of temporality carries profound existential weight. It shapes how…