rereading yourself

Rereading yourself somehow has it’s own innate sense of surrealism. On one hand you take pride at those moments when you still had the right words and actually knew how to write and well. Then sometimes these things that you read about yourself back then would take on a life of it’s own, exposing all and nothing at the same time, and you end up alienating the only audience that the writer had ever had who actually wanted to read yourself: you.
Sometimes you just really weren’t that good at it, really. You just thought that you were.
I suddenly had the urge to play. And then the hunger sets in as well..


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