Saturday, August 1, 2009
I write to my imaginary friend, the one who is always there, always wants to KNOW me. I write believing I can hear a response (my imaginary friend ALWAYS gives a response, lest I feel unloved or alone).
When I find indifference and lack of regard in the rest of the world, when I grow tired of standing with a gift in my hands, offered up to backs turned to me, and I and my gift are, once again, ignored as beneath interest
Then I come here to write. Because here I have an audience, I have my imaginary friend.
Even if that audience is only me.
I write to my imaginary friend, the one who is always there, always wants to KNOW me. I write believing I can hear a response (my imaginary friend ALWAYS gives a response, lest I feel unloved or alone).
When I find indifference and lack of regard in the rest of the world, when I grow tired of standing with a gift in my hands, offered up to backs turned to me, and I and my gift are, once again, ignored as beneath interest
Then I come here to write. Because here I have an audience, I have my imaginary friend.
Even if that audience is only me.