Waindo
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    We speak of massive dark truths and tiny white lies.
    We improve ourselves and prove other people right.
    We sing corrupted songs, scream beautiful prose.
    We mark, and erase, and are marked and erased.
    We remember.
    We swear that we’ll never forget.


    We get bored, distracted, captivated, excited, burnt out,
    We forget. We conceal, we display; we hide in plain sight.
    We run to and we run from and we wander and we dance and we stumble and we sometimes try to stand still, just to watch the world zoom by and try to moderate the head-rush of it all, whether it’s gleaming with sparkles dripping with dread or buzzing with sensory overload.


    We break things on accident or just to watch the pieces scatter.
    We stand over shattered parts because there’s something strangely beautiful about how the light hits the broken edges.
    We cut ourselves trying to fix them, bend trying to keep them together, and bruise trying to remember why it’s so important to do so.
    But we try.


    We try. We fail. Or worse, we succeed.
    At the wrong things. At our own plans.
    We are because of ourselves and we are in spite of ourselves.
    We give up on the right and the inevitables become almosts and almosts become shouldn't haves.
    Why do we do the things we do?
    Is it the human condition, or just a byproduct?


    As long as there’s love, as long as there’s hope, and as long as you believe with everything you have…
    Every uncorrupted flame of determination,
    Every momentary flashback of the thing or the time or a place or a person that made nothing else matter,
    Every trophy,
    Every bruise,
    Every broken edge… the light will find it,
    And as it catches your eye, you've just been shown a reason to keep trying.
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