I can, indeed, slow down a bit. This has been a wild ride so far, and it likely will stay like this. Too often, the reluctance was just a sign of irritation, and as it was already more than enough to carry on, maybe I should have just continued without making such a fuss of it.

I left my marks somewhere, and I found those of others. They didn’t always deliberately leave them, so I should not expect anything to show up. My own signs, though, are not any better. They are just silly moments of feeling significant and unique. I think I can do without that easily.

Nothing there to ease the pressure of my ever-worrying mind.

I have been telling too many ridiculous anecdotes already, yet no one really cared, and rightfully so. The movement resembled everything that had happened before, and I was there. Did I experience only to report? What am I doing right now—am I nothing but a narrator?

In other words, please be true.

Can I give more to those who already have? Should I take away from those who still embrace what they have earned?

I am not that kind of person, but maybe I need to at times. My collections are incomplete, as are those of most I engage with. But when I stop counting… what happens then?

The end is the beginning is the end.

Can I forget about that? It is repetitive, and I don’t need to call it a burden unless I discuss it. But who is listening? The toil seems universal, so my stories are nothing worth mentioning.

I think that everyone might need more than just a little pause. I have overextended far too often, so when I can rest a bit, I can see how most ideas were not helpful after all. I guess everyone has had that experience before already, as well.

You are always welcome.