Part 1: Young Blood

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i've always looked at the results of my overthinking as something i couldn't really treasure—they're trashy, crumpled papers my brain is better off without; nothing but an amalgamation of poems and prose works of sorts, sentiments even, from my long-gone days of exhaustion, confusion, anxiety and grief.

what a pleasant combination, weren't they?

though, it was different now and the way i see it, the way i give it a closer look, i figured out they weren't, well, as brutish as they seem to be; they weren't as trampled as i thought they are. actually, they are clues, footprints left for us to track back again where we've gone and what we might have wrongly peered in along the journey. they are alternate routes to reclaim the sanity we've been in, emergency glasses to break at times we're deprived of help.

and dear, maybe what i have found is what i want you to understand—that, i don't blame you for seeing me like a big question mark deigned in all these undertakings. because, after all, it has always been me alternating between trying to have a shot at redemption and acting again like a fool for chances i'm endowed to have.

either way, i have my hopes to the brim thinking you could find the answer yourself along the scrap heaps i made. and, i wish you would.

i wish you could.

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