I had a nightmare last night that there were only ever eight stories we lived, and further, that I had figured out which one it was I was living. I was softly horrified to realize there was nothing I could do it was already written, the lead up and the grand crescendo, and even the end. That really wasn't the horrifying part, the part that made my heart pound and break was that I would spend the rest of my life trying to prove this wrong. And wouldn't it already be written? And predicted? It was awful to realize the only solution would be to take myself out of the game, but then, that was already written. Which would be my worst nightmare. I hate being told what to do, worse is being told when to do it.
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