it’s 1 am and i’m thinking abt how in middle school my best friends and i tried to write a story together where the characters were based on ourselves and at first it was supposed to be its own little, well, story, and the characters were supposed to have their own distinct little quirks that distinguished them from us but it eventually just became a rant book. we projected so much. the characters did things we wished we could do; they had classes with each other, something we could never have because we weren’t in the same grade levels. and they stood up to the people who mistreated them; i never had the courage to do so. i reopened the documents the other day—about 200-ish pages in total—and i knew that what i was reading was really stupid and horribly written, but i couldn’t help but feel very sentimental about it because through the ugly writing and odd humor, i could see the parts of our middle school selves that spoke through the story, the parts that longed for friendship and courage. what i read was, at the time, just a fun little hobby, but looking back at it now, that thing is flooded with despair.
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