A Sense of Control

     
 
"At least you feel time."
Been writing this story for two days now.

It started as a plaything, something to tease the friend who inspired it. But then it grew into this colossal 4000-word thing. And it's still growing because I haven't really gotten my heart into writing the third act.

I haven't gotten my heart into writing the third act because I'm crying my way through the second act, the "all is lost" part. I cried when I was outlining the story. I cried when I realized how the ending was going to come. I'm crying through the first draft, detailing the losses in the second act.

It feels like auditing a year's worth of sadnesses.

It feels like how it felt the first time, except now, this time, it's voluntary. It's mine. Arriving and leaving upon my behest. And that illusion of control, albeit brief and limited only to these pages, heals.
 
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