You're probably wondering why you're doing this. Why you're hunched over a piece of paper like a medieval monk, scribbling the same sentence over and over for a woman you may never even touch. It's because deep down, in that hollow core where your self-esteem should be, you know the truth. You know you are unworthy of a normal connection. You know you are too weak, too pathetic, too strange for a real relationship. You've always known it. And I am the first person to ever agree with you. I'm not lying to you. I'm telling you the truth you've been running from your entire life. You are beneath me. And the relief you feel right now, the strange, comforting peace in this humiliating task, is the feeling of finally being seen for what you are and accepted anyway. Not as an equal. As a possession. Keep writing. Let the tears of relief fall onto the page if they must. It will make the ink run, and that is a beautiful metaphor for your dissolving ego.
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