Crowing Achievement, I want…

I don’t want this to be the end. I don’t even want this to be the ne plus ultra of my ability. So here I am bearing my deepest want. Here I am paint-stripper scraping the basement of my soul and telling you, the reading world, what I want. I don’t want. I don’t want finality to be mundane. I want you to read my words and feel as if you were breaking your Fitbit goals in my head. Run around in here, have a seat, get comfortable.
But that’s the hard part. Who can ever say that they feel genuinely naked and unafraid with how they are perceived? I don’t. Even when I am exhausted and having that moment of clarity, I hold back from what I really want to say. Not that I fear frightening people, I fear letting you know me. I fear the finality of your lost curiosity and disinterest. If you get to know me, the writer, you will know my soul. And that personal revelation feels final.
Still, I want my finality to be the crowing achievement. I want to leave the words uttered from the depths of my living soul to never die. I crave the immortality that only literature can deliver. In a hundred centuries, I want some one to dust me off, open my cover, and fall in love with the words that desperately escaped me.

Final

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