Quite often when I write it is what I am feeling intensely at the moment and the words spill like blood from a fresh, deep cut.
When I revisit those same words, a day, a month, a year later, the emotions can still feel like a wound that has not been cauterised and I am transported back to the moment my thoughts were bared.
The feelings are not the same, but I am unable to cast an indifferent eye upon them. I find myself gazing at them from a safe distance, peering over the rim of that abyss, no desire to wade in, hip deep, to the pain.
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