I am a grateful thief.
There is really nothing to write. I thought to myself. Why am I still writing?
Why am I still creating?
Words are still the same. We know the language. But not everyone arrange the words the same way. Some create masterpieces and some create mundane pieces.
But this is me. I am creating sentences that have never been created in the history of humanity (I assume). How weirdly amazing is that.
My thoughts are unique.
I am not writing to create. I am writing to think. I am rearranging words in my own way. I am thinking in my own way.
I did not create these words. I merely reused them. I did not create these ideas. I merely rearranged them.
Are these words / thoughts mine? Or are they a combination of millions of words / thoughts that have come before me?
Is anything original?
How can I rearrange words and thoughts and still call it my own? I feel like a person who committed theft.
We are all thieves. We steal from this world. And we give back.
We are grateful thieves.
Grateful thieves.
Never have I thought those two words would appear in that order, until I just wrote it down.