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This is what insanity feels like

I heard you talk. I read what you wrote. I believed every line. I felt every syllable.

And then I was convinced otherwise.

Now sometimes I go back and read what you said. And I ask myself if you were right. I have internalized your writing to such an extent that part of me thinks its my pain, my anguish, my regret, my mistake. I don't know if you were right or completely insane. But I know that I can never be sure.

I almost want to write to you, reach out to you, ask you. But then I let that thought go too.

I hope you are happy. I hope you were wrong. 

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