Do I make sense ever?

When I really sit down to write, I feel like I have so much I’m meant to say. So many stories that need to be told—not real stories. Fictional ones, but I feel this visceral urge to have these characters’ voices heard, as if they were real. Are they real? In the sense that they manifest what’s real and what’s true? Maybe the only way we can see truth is through fictional manifestation. Symbols. Tales. Satire. Archetypes. Plot. Conflict. Fables. Morals. Truth is hardly easy to comprehend so it must be done so indirectly. Does that make any sense at all? I’m really just letting myself word-vomit because I’m listening to the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack with a headache.

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