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1. I could tell that she was a wonderful writer, and I had resented her for it. It was the ones with the most skillful tongue that I felt— felt for me dishonestly, that every time we spoke to each other there was a competitive undertone of who it is that spoke better, or who it is that was more clever, who it is that was more of a silent observer than the other. As a lover of diction, even though my heart easily belonged to written words, it was difficult for me to ever give myself to a writer or a poet, though I don’t mind letting them lie to me. It was not the first time I felt my eyelashes or its shape being described with pathetic vernacular. It is clear I have a bitter disdain for people, though simultaneously I felt as though I loved every single one of them, even the good ones.
My life then took its path into the arms of the pragmatic, those who thought in image and numbers, those who made the bed every morning, always inebriated with caffeine, who habit all seven of the daily habits. Those who could replace calculators, though could not ever be as calculated as any given storyteller. Those whose hearts never needed training, who possess an appropriate amount of good and evil, if those things were to exist. Those who could not spell nor cared enough about the ambiance of the text not to abbreviate almost every word. Those who read because they enjoyed reading, and not because they are daydreaming of leaving a will for their loved ones, consisting only of their ‘very genius and very self-aware’ biography to be released the minute they die, containing some sort of hurtful ‘truths’ they were too passive to admit to alive, as if there ever was a need to for pointless confessing, — creating an awkward atmosphere.