The more I write, the most I become concerned about the state and content of my soul.
Not because it isn't a therapeutic exercise; certainly not, because writing helps me organize and conceptualize.
The concern instead lies in the thought that the more I write, the deeper that I delve into myself.
And I have been digging and diving for years and pages and ages, but I can't begin to see the bottom.
Which leads me to the question: where do I end?
Do I have limits? How sacrilegious this seems.
Am I only outlined by the frailty of my body?
I do not think I fear what I am capable of, only that I will have the audacity to miss it.
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