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Writing is Dying
A small part of me dies at the end of each sentence. Every period constructs my personal burning ghat, each coma suffocates an ember of my existence. This perpetual death is also the story of my life and worth dying…
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Are You Leading A Second-hand Life?
I was living a secondhand life for many years. Like an old worn-out t-shirt hanging on the thrift store rack, waiting for someone to take me home so that I could live in their dream world and not mine. The…
