I prefer pictures. Afterall, if I was to journal or write, you would know exactly what I meant. I’d rather not be so open to criticism or rejections or praise even. I’d rather not seem too involved or you know, uncool. Although, there’s nothing cool about me.
I read books and drink teas. I’m passive and boring. I’ve done things. I’m no longer one who… does things. I guess you could say, I’ve changed. Maybe even for the worst but it’s more acceptable, they say.
There I go again…writing instead of letting this thing speak.
I wrote to you years ago and never mailed it. I wanted to send you flowers or something for your pet. You seemed strange and beautiful. I liked that.
I walked by every morning just to see you watering your plants..well spraying them. I wondered what type of tonics you made for them. You seemed like the tonic making type. You always wore something that made you appear to float by. It was something. You were.
I’ve written things about you but I know how people would laugh or say I was crazy. I wasn’t. I adored you. I’m glad I never sent you that letter. This world doesn’t forgive you if your love is too loud or watchful.
I bet you were different than the world.
I’d never know.