She should let herself be creative more often. She should let herself paint with her fingers all outside of the lines. She should dance without correcting her posture and being so aware that her tummy must be tucked. She should not choose all of her words so carefully, but rather let her thoughts flow uncensored. She should. She should. She should. Yet, she never did.
Her life was like that one extensive persuasive essay. The kind that was worth fifty percent of your grade. The one you wrote and rewrote obsessively. Pass or fail, everything was riding on it and every choice mattered. Every choice must be deliberate. This is how she lived her life. While her thoughts flowed freely and elaborately in her mind, the words that came out of her mouth could never reflect them. Just like an essay, she edited every word she spoke before it had been spoken. She chose her verbs, her adjectives, her similes and her metaphors with meticulous deliberation. Every action was previously decided upon. Spontaneity was her enemy and passion her cross to bear. For passion would boil up inside of her, begging her to take a stand, pick a side, do anything that would separate her from the crowd. Passion made her speak unaltered thoughts. Passion was dangerous. Yet she could never suppress it.
She should have thought before she spoke those hateful words. She should have paused before she shared that part of herself. She should have taken a moment to consider the consequences of opening her heart up again. She should. She should. She should. Yet she didn’t. Again and again, she didn’t.
There was a constant war inside of her as she battled to assemble this essay that was her life. With each paragraph she crafted, she began to doubt her arguments more and more. She even began to question the side that she was fighting for. Her passion boiled and again she suppressed it. Yet deep down she knew this could never be sustainable. The pressure was building, her heart breaking, her mind bursting. There was a low but steady hum inside of her brain trying to convince her that she was intelligent enough to form her own opinions. To write freely and off the page. To let herself fail the persuasive essay that had become her life and instead, maybe, let herself write a poem. Or a short story, a novel, or newspaper article. Or anything at all that her heart desired.
She should, for once, just let herself exist. She should let herself write constantly whatever story she longed to tell. She should chase her dream with every resource at her disposal. She should. She should. She should.
She will, from now on, begin to simply exist. She will let herself write a never-ending story that she is desperate to share with the world. She will chase her dream with every last ounce of her unbreakable passion. She will. She will. She will.
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