letter to my (in)existent friends

The writer lives consumed in a bubble of her thoughts and induced happiness – detached. Often described as elusive and aloof by the alleged real world. The writer hath profound feelings but untraceable emotion. She-is-cold-and-callous.

Oh dear old friend thou shall not let this daunt you, do not flee; for her love for ye runs deep in this material world, her love for ye cannot be bleached out. She sketches peculiar images on her hand-made canvas, most sculptures she builds on her lonesome. 

But oh dear old friend do not let this deceit you, yes she might be able to live without you, yet she’s still grateful for your existence – in fact – just the subliminal act of you breathing and donating DNA fueled Carbon Dioxide particles into the air – trace and cling onto her solitude body ensuring hope, illustrating how you are not mere Carbon Copies you are simply her lovies. 

The writer behaves like a mute disabled robot in the Cyber world, broken fingers incapable of typing at least a text. The writer behaves like a deaf and blind human in the real world, incapable of hearing or seeing your crys of attention. But this dear old friend still thinks of ye from dawn to sunrise, dusk to twilight and sunrise once more

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