I remember standing there for some time looking at the reflection before me because I had no idea who the person staring back at me was. Who was this stranger, and what was going to become of him? Would I ever know him completely? Would he ever be able to shed the soul ache—that unnameable, unknowable inner sadness that seemed to have no source? Would he ever be able to shed the heavy weight of existence that was dense, physical, yet intangible? Was that inner sadness something that was a product of his nature? Or was it something born of nurture, passed on to a highly sensitive kid through
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