"How much of my brain is willfully my own? How much is not a rubber stamp of what I have read and heard and lived?"

i long for times when i had not seen waters; when they were merely clear, spherical pearls, when i did not know what 'literature' means, when i only knew 'writing', when i knew whom i was writing for: myself

how much of this is willfully written for myself, and i began doubting; because i do not want my writing to be a rubber stamp of what i have read and heard and lived; i do not want them to be fickle, a rubber stamp of what i have interpreted from what others are thinking about my writing to myself, because i want to be selfish with words, and i want to attach my own meaning to this language, because language is a set of symbols, and i do not want to care if these symbols are misunderstood...

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