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foster-child of silence

When I was a kid I did some bad things. Nothing really terrible, but I acted badly, treat people badly. I was a liar, a cheat, I was violent. Got known for it too, and some people thought I was cool, girls thought I was cool, but I never did. I just felt guilty. Felt bad.

I took up writing partly as a way to get beyond all that, and now I try not to act in a bad way, try not to treat people poorly. I endeavour to tell the truth, keep my word, act honourably.

But sometimes I fail, and when I do, guilt consumes me.

Truth is beauty, Keats said, but where does that leave me, a storyteller?

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