To lost friends, or to whom it may concern,
Tonight, I miss you. Though truthfully, I don't hold to believing that I ever met you. I'm willing to own that, and to own that I may be writing to imaginary friends, not to you.
All I know is that I'm haunted by a sense of a life I've touched only in moments of silent near-divinity and in deep, faraway dreams of heart-intimacy greater than I've ever known. I suppose my current state is the product of a fearful spirit, and I'd do better if I truly believed I was okay. But I won't simplify it.
I'm still dreaming, of places that songs graze with their fingertips, places that pictures are little windows into, places where the world is of a different nature and I am at home, or at least in my place.
Here I feel lost, a shaky hand scrawling words that lose their spirit in translation. What am I, really? I know I am something, because in my deepest moments of conviction I can feel it like sunlight under my skin, and my eyes are like a clear sky. But I feel diseased, or broken, or traumatically shaken to my innermost doors. Where are the walls? Who stormed the keep?
Oh so poetic. I fancy myself so sharp, so elegant. Sometimes.
Who taught me to talk about myself like I need to be put in my place?
I'd like to go sit by a waterfall for a while. A few days, maybe.
Is it time to wake up?
I can't believe that they're not telling me something incredibly important. And I dare not disempower myself by saying that I don't know what to do, but...there is a question without words that I'm asking here.
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