I need to print these out so I last forever.

When I heard Hamilton for the first time I didn’t want to say it but I’m him.

Conceited, yes, comparing myself to a founding father. And, I don’t write all the time.

Let me explain something. This might be too brief, and I think that might negate my claim. I’m not sure.

School gives me a chance to occupy my time doing something other than fearing my death. Sometimes I fear death by my own hand, and other times, I fear my untimely death. When this happens, my heart races and the fear keeps coming at me in waves, pulsing in my chest and radiating out to my fingertips. The fear tells me to write something, to do something to spread my consciousness out into the periphery of the pages and words and sentences and paragraphs. I hate the way I write. I hate it so much. I hate that I have to repeat myself and I hate that I pushed the delete button but I hate more that I don’t use punctuation when I want to make myself sound like this. I hate that I used the word “I” so much. I hate that I wanted to write this.

In these moments, I feel as though I should want to annihilate myself, but I don’t. I want to extend myself, to stretch myself outside my physical form.

I just wrote, just now, about my protagonist losing her skin pigmentation. Soon, she will hear the drums and the melodies of the sidhe, the people of the Otherworld, only it’s not an Otherworld, it’s a selfish science experiment. Soon, she will participate in a ritual drowning. They will drown her. They will drown her because she loves what she is becoming, and they will suggest it. Her best friend will not be pleased. She and her best friend will never move beyond the boundaries of friendship, but their love always already extends far beyond it.

I want to finish it. I need to finish it. I need to start the podcast script; I’ll do that tomorrow. The podcast script will be one set in the same world as the other story, but above ground. Detroit will be obliterated, and Maggie will find out.

I’m saying this because I don’t know if I will finish it. I’m saying this because I want to extend myself beyond my years. Let me express my deepest condolences to my future dead self, whenever that will be. Definitely not soon, if I can help it. Maybe if I write enough words, I’ll live forever in the strings of them that I leave behind.

I’m not Alexander Hamilton, but I can relate.

I’m a child of immigrants who came here to be discriminated against for their Irish accents and German tongues. I’m poor and I don’t know what my future holds and I want to rise up above my class. Not to start a new nation or meet my son but to provide a good life for my future wife and any children that may step inside my home.

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