retrospect.

It was on those summer nights so long ago that I wished I was someone else. Many years later I became someone else, but not the person I once wished to be. It was a strange feeling, to not know the person I was, nor the person I had become. I was merely a series of essays, written with an artful hand in elegant prose. I wasn’t a person, not really, but instead a good subject for a short story.

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~ by Mary Christa on April 25, 2011.

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