I want to paint my life with mistakes and memories. Bright and burning like the most exciting of books. Every page a meaningful tale to tell. Every page multicolored. Every page worth remembering, for the sad or the happy for the bad and the worst. I want to live not merely exist anymore. I’m tired of the misconception that people get from arguments like this. I mean, I want road trips to unlikely places and campfires and jotting down constellations in the middle of nowhere, where the loud city lights won’t dim the night sky. I want to go to a concert and lose my voice with the vigor of the crowd. I want to go on color runs and curse at myself when my hair looks a weird mix of green and pink for a week. I want to stay up all night talking about the universe. I want to ride a Ferris wheel and not close my eyes when it hits it’s highest point. I want to live life to theΒ fullest. And I want to do it now. Not years from now, when I’m bitter and angry and do most of it out of rebellious causes just because I spent all my life locked up in my room.


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