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Weaknesses Of Writing

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This should answer my view on writing, my experiences and identity through writing. One can deduce my strengths and definite weaknesses.They started as letters. The first day I met her, I wrote her a letter. She faux-pouted and then smiled at me, my words no longer important or meaningful compared to the look in my eyes. That was the first letter I ever wrote to her. The next forty or so, I haven’t a clue what they were about anymore, and they’re just as well lost to the wind; but I’m now convinced beyond any doubt that they were what endeared me to her – these stupid, silly letters, one every day, most of them filled with whimsical dreams of Europe and love, of root-beer and summertime: like I said, stupid, silly things. We were both really young, and arrogantly, hopelessly naive. We had no idea the kinds of things awaiting us; but back then, really, it didn’t matter so much. We were in love, so it goes, and when you’re in love, you think you’re invincible, you think you’re endless, you think you’re forever.
Then she broke up with me.
I continued writing her letters after that. I didn’t know what else to do; 128 days, 128 and counting pages of affection and anxiety and arousal and agony – it had to mean something, I felt it inside me, I really did – but I couldn’t explain what it was. Maybe I didn’t even know what it was. Sometimes I wonder what kept me writing: was it love? Hope? The promise of something beyond even the death of us itself, perhaps – or just muscle

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