I recently read a post. Writing was, in essence, a journey of my own maternity, giving priority to myself, and that it was still on its way. Sharing is such a feeling that everyone wanted to read what they wrote. I wanted everyone to know and let me find a piece of self. I like to write because I like to spell emotions.
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Anyway: After sharing; I said excitedly, what do you say if I read my friend to the person I care about? I've been waiting for likes, whether my pen is beautiful, or I don't know if I'm very sincere, but I'm in anticipation of encouraging words. Before it stopped quietly. It was a beautiful article, but he said that what we needed to share his specialness with others, to scream his senses in the so-called sentence.
Then when he grew up he would read them and he would be angry with you for what you wrote, adding that he would blame you for sharing them, and he might even tie you to some of his troubles. I thought, I thought about it a long time. I've been thinking about it for two weeks until you write that article.
I am because I am. I'm trying to hear what the people I care about tell me. I think it's slim, so long, thin. I choose the emotion, I look at the words. I've always done this. The only difference is that I don't buy anything that is said anymore. I'm looking at what's left of me thinking of what I'm thinking. At the end of these two weeks, I decided to write and share a lot.
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But misunderstanding, you'll see that you're greedy, you're always right, or I'm right, I'm not a link to everyone I'm right. I think I just wanted to pour out as much as I could, and wanted to share it with everyone who wanted to hear it, but at the very least it made me realize that I wanted my son to hear this process of thinking.
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