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There is this emptiness that lingers inside and simply refuses…, no matter what I do, to fill it up.
All the creativity in the world gets consumed, and yet, that space inside remains constant.
You can relate with what am feeling, if you try to converse with one of your ancestors. Where you’d know how they’d respond back to something you’d say or do, but wish to hear them say it to you.
And when they wouldn’t, you’d stand facing the void within.
No one can take their place.
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