I've seen too much, and I've lost too many. And too much of me still wants to fix it.
I desperately want to write but you're going to have to put up with this mélange of nonsense instead.
Memories can be a choice, sometimes.
I've written myself through loneliness, depression, anxiety, anger, fear, frustration for my entire life.
Elena's really a lousy soldier. I love her with all my heart, but she should've been a freighter jock instead.
All memories are my own, and like all memories may be imprecise here and there. I've fact-checked where I could.
But this story is personal.
A positive attitude doesn't rescue you once you've gone over that cliff. At some point, you're dropping, and it's just a matter of what you hit when you get to the bottom.