I'd like to expand on and tidy up this metaphore, but here it is, just as it came into my mind.
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I had a book of Me, and I've spent a lot of time tearing out these pages of myself, crumpling them into balls and throwing them away. There's a big pile. What I need to do is to go through each of these discarded pages, each a piece of myself, open them up, smooth them out, and rebuilt myself, page by page, into a stronger, sturdier work of art.
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