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Life is like a big journal, one of those with giant sheets, where you need both hands to pass the pages.

Is full of blank ones, and sometimes you write with ink, sometimes you write with tears, and sometimes you write with blood.


And write on it every second of your time, sometimes with big characters, sometimes with tiny letters, and you fill the pages, one after the other, and sometimes you want to squeeze more words on it, even changing the direction of your hand, climbing on the sides from the bottom of the page,

But it gets to a point that is so full that must let it go, breathe in and pass that big page full of moments with both of your hands because there will always be another big blank page on the other side.


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