If you stop reading, will I stop writing?
The genie's out of the bottle now.

Perhaps I'll even cease to exist.
Spending most of my days lost in words, stories, articles. Can't help but see myself as another fictional character.
Gone are my summers of sand and sunshine and laughter. I'm trapped here; cold, pale, sober. Had to leave that part of me behind and there's no one to drag me out of my cell anymore.
Need to do it myself

Where do thoughts go when they are forgotten? Do they disappear completely? Or they just find another host?
If we could get rid of our ability to hope would it make our lives easier? Or we'd all commit suicide tomorrow?

I mistrust hope. Does that make me a realist? A pessimist? A coward?
Dreams are always preferable. They don't depend so much on the future. They can be beautiful even when they are unreachable.
And they don't keep you awake at night.