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Since I’ve really become serious about pursuing a career in writing, there’s this thing I do where I think about what my memoir would be like. Specifically, if I had to write it this second. When I think about it, I start to feel like it would be so ridiculously uneventful that it ends up making me feel sort of sad. Nevertheless, I decided to write about it, and this is the result.

Whenever I’m feeling discouraged, I find myself thinking, “none of this really matters.”

I hope that it will make me feel better.

And it never has.

It almost makes me feel worse.

Because I hate thinking that nothing matters.

I WANT it to matter.

I want those remarkable memories.

But I feel so terribly unremarkable.

Like I’m just another star in the sky.

Without a name,

Or a constellation.

Like another face in a crowd, or another tree in the forest.

I feel so terribly,



But other times I can understand that the things that matter don’t have to be remarkable.

They can be anything.

Or everything.

Or nothing.

So today I looked at the night sky

And I found a random star,

And I thought,

You are so terribly,



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